


The Unicorn

by Turtle_ier



Series: Turtle's MCYT AUs [12]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst, Developing Relationship, Extended Metaphors, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Investigations, Louisiana, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Private Investigators, Sad, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28314678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turtle_ier/pseuds/Turtle_ier
Summary: George is sent to get a story out of a small Louisiana town which has been dragged into infamy after a murder five years prior. While he initially expects some difficulties in figuring out what to write about, as he gets more involved with the local population - and meets Dream out on the bayou - he realises that something else might be lingering below the surface of the town and it becomes his job to find out what.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: Turtle's MCYT AUs [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1875367
Comments: 44
Kudos: 83





	1. Fenborne

_Once upon a time in the days before,_

_When people lived fresh out of legend and folklore,_

_A unicorn existed in a forgotten bayou,_

_Living unseen bar by the few._

_When humans scattered across the land,_

_Living anywhere from forest to sand,_

_The unicorn saw the future in the breeze_

_And moved from her home to make a leave._

_But when the beast moved from bank to blackwater,_

_The unicorn forgot about the weight that wrought her,_

_And as the people searched shore to shore,_

_They realised the unicorn was no more._

. 

Sweat dripped down his back in long lines, seeping into his shirt and then into the car seat. 

Far from home, George skirted the edge of the bayou and tried not to think of the black waters not three inches below him, nor of the mirror image presented to him that seemed too good to be true. The mirror didn't ripple or waver when the edge of the wheels dipped a little too far off the thin gravel road, but he didn't let himself get distracted by the thoughts, since what he was looking for was easily missed, hidden by underbrush and water alike. He was the only one who could do this, apparently, and the camcorder that his editor had given him proved it. 

George was alone in his task to get a story, and he knew that this was it; his plan that could not fail. 

When he had been assigned the impossible-sounding task of getting a story out of Fenborne, he had expected some of the things he had seen already – the Spanish moss, the willows and the sluggish movement they made without wind, and even the dragonflies the size of birds hadn't dissuade him from going further into the swamp. But now that he was here, the deep marsh water and stench of rotting vegetation was as much a warning to turn back as anything else could be. But it was just foliage. It was just a reminder of being away from home, and that was sometimes all it took to remind him that he was a fish out of water here, out of his depth.

It was around noon, but the thick jungle-like mist that hung over the bayou obscured almost all of the sky, making the area feel like wandering through honey, simultaneously slow going and a warning to stop. George let the car creep around the corner of the unmarked gravel road, the steep Cypress trees disguising the turns further up the road, but when he saw the figure walking along the road he pulled the car to a stop and rolled down the window. With the air conditioning broken, he didn't feel bad about doing it, and the person with the hoodie looked at him.

“Hey,” he said, “is this the right way to Fenborne?”

The stranger seemed startled to be approached like this, and he (facial hair, so probably he) took his hands out of the pockets of the hoodie. It was definitely homemade, but at least it made George feel less out of place with his own wrapped around his waist. How the other man could stand to wear it in the humidity was a mystery. 

“You _want_ to go there?”

Their accent was American but not the Louisiana twang he’d expected, and George leaned slightly further into his car at the realisation that apparently not everyone in the town was from around there. He stayed to the point though and spoke up again.

“Yeah, I’m meeting someone. He said people call him Ranboo?”

“Ah,” the guy said, nodding as if George was stating something grave but obvious, “The new drydock keeper. He contacted you?”

“I contacted him,” George said, “So is this the right road?”

“Yeah,” the guy pointed down the road, “You’ll reach a bit where the road cuts off and there should be a few cars or whatever there already, but after that you’ll need to walk. It’s past the old church, then along the water edge, and eventually you’ll see it. The guy painted one side of it purple. You’ll see it.”

George looked to where the other guy was pointing, and when he turned back to ask a different question, the man was already walking back along the gravel that George had just travelled along, not sparing a second glance. He huffed to himself, thinking twice about calling the guy over again, even if he had been friendly enough, because if he was from Fenborne then there was always a chance that the guy could be a nutcase. He shouldn't think like that, and he knew it too, but sometimes you just had those pre-existing impressions of things and places that stuck with you. 

He continued the drive. Fenborne had been known in the media five or so years ago for the murder of some kid, the ‘blonde, blue eyes’ type, and while the killer had been found and imprisoned, the town still stayed in infamy. The kid was still missing, and since her family lived closer to Dulac than Fenborne, it brought the question of abduction to light. Messy stuff, and hardly the type of thing George would usually be looking into, but some leads made his editor interested. He was there for four days, three nights, and he had a simple objective – interview as many people as possible, figure out of the murderer’s friend had anything to do with it (hopefully with an interview with the man himself, if it could be helped, but he didn't have high hopes), and get some semblance of a story at the end of the day.

The outer world saw them as a backwards, closed minded community, but from what he had seen of the old interview tapes, they were just country folk making ends meet. The guy's friend had never been interviewed though, refusing contact with anyone from the media and making people suspect something more nefarious of him than there perhaps was, but without a character profile of him, there was not much to go off. The police tapes made him sound hysterical, in disbelief, as if he was willing to end it all just to get the lights off him. 

He didn't necessarily have _sympathy_ for the guy, per say, but an understanding. Guilty or not, being pressured by the media like that wasn't pleasant, and when George reached the end of the gravel road, only seeing two vehicles and a rocky path further into the swamp, he had to remind himself that these were just people. Guilty or not, they were people. 


	2. Ranboo

**_Fenborne and its People: Five Years After the Disappearance of Shannon-Eliza Smith_ **

_Written by George --------_

_For many the disappearance of Shannon-Eliza Smith is a well-known and well documented tale of tragedy, where a six-year-old child was kidnapped from her home in Dulac, Louisiana on the 14th August 2016. While her killer, Jackabie White, has confessed to the police and is imprisoned for her murder, the body of the child has never been found, despite White insisting she was in his basement._

_Fenborne was White’s home, and where he lived at the time of Smith’s murder, and while many in the area have forgiven Fenborne and its people for the misdeed done by White, mystery and infamy surrounds the Louisiana town. For many, it’s a symbol of a disruption changing the politics and lifestyle of a small, hardworking community, but what ails the town runs deeper than the surface of the bayou it resides near._

.

Somehow, the name suited the area more so than the man.

He was a dirty blonde, George noticed when he opened the door, and the filtration mask over his nose and mouth disguised almost every other notable feature on the man’s body, aside from the heavy amount of sanding dust coating his shoulders and front of his overalls. His protective goggles were pressed up over his hairline, pulling his fringe back in thirty different directions, but his eyes were happy despite the indentations it left in the skin. 

He was also tall, lanky, like a pike or gar. The description suited him, George thought, and he didn't pull the mask down before he started talking. 

“Hey-o!” he said, “You must be the news guy.”

“George,” he put a hand out for Ranboo to shake, which he did with his gloved hands. He could feel the residue of wood-sand on his own palm now, embedded in the skin, and he tried not to wipe it on his trousers. 

“Ranboo. Good to see ya. Come in! Was ya drive good? Roads clear?”

“Very. Clear roads and all. If you’re alright to get right to it, are you comfortable doing an interview here or would you rather somewhere else?”

When George was invited into the building, he looked around the drydock, the bay of which was drained and contained a small, wooden utility-style dinghy, then to the similarly wooden roof and doors leading into the area. Off to the right side was a work area and stairs leading down into the drydock, but on the same level as the two of them were multiple old aluminium cabinets and some perforated hardboard against the far wall, lined with tools. Pine boards made walking to the work area a little difficult, especially with it taking up most of the walkway beside the drydock, and George skirted the edge to reach the area Ranboo led him to. The building had a door off to the side, which he assumed was Ranboo’s entrance to the house attached on the building’s side. The wooden walls gave off an impression of age, of tiredness, that he had seen in many of the buildings coming up there, yet here it was something different, as if the water of the bayou had seeped into them somehow. While the outside of the building had been painted violet, as the person on the road had said, inside was coated with a deep red varnish, turned brittle with age, and the building stank of epoxy from the boat. 

If it had been sunny, light would have cast through the holes in the roof like laser beams targeting the floor, and similarly, if it had rained the drydock would not have been so dry anymore. The workshop area was void of holes though, and so it was just dark, dusty, and dry. 

“Here is fine. Do ya need to record? I turned off the machines just in case, but don't worry either way.”

Ranboo pulled himself up onto one of the work tables, his heavy boots hitting one of the metal cabinets as he did, but he didn't seem to mind. George didn't hesitate in pulling his bag from his side, ignoring the sweat stain from where it had been leaning against his skin, and pulled free the camcorder that his editor had bestowed upon him. 

“Is it alright if there’s video?” he asked, “I don't have to point it at your face, but just something to make sure anyone reviewing the footage knows you’re a person and not, like, I don't know – “

“An actor,” Ranboo closed his eyes and nodded solemnly, “I get ya. Please don't get my face in it, though. The shop or my clothes are fine, but not my face.” 

“Sure,” George said, getting the collapsible tripod out of his bag too. It was a small thing, light weight and plastic, but so long as it was out of the wind it would work just fine, and George put the camera on top when it was standing. Ranboo eyed it, concern evident in his eyes even with his mouth covered, and George tried to be nonchalant as he turned the viewfinder so that he could see it clearly, and more importantly, at where it was pointed below Ranboo’s face. 

“Is that okay for you?” He asked, glancing up.

“Yeah, like I said, so long as my face isn't in it. Uhm.”

Ranboo fidgeted, pulling at the collar of his plaid shirt as if he was suddenly feeling hot, or worse for George, shy, but he still waited for the other man to say something first. 

“Will I need to take the dust mask off?” he asked, “I mean. I _can_ , but… yeah.”

George stood up straight, no longer fussing with the angle of the camera or the microphone and muff attached to it, and he looked at Ranboo and his nervous expression. 

“The camera won't be on your face,” George reminded him, “But it would be clearer to hear you without it.” 

“No, I know that, but…” he sighed, “I’ve got this scar, okay? Please don't, well, don't write about it in whatever ya put out there. Not many people have seen it.” 

“Okay,” George promised, slipping the lens cap into his pocket, “I won't. It shouldn't be important to the story, I don't think.” 

Ranboo seemed comforted by George’s confirmation, and he reached up to his face with both of his dusty hands, obscuring his mouth at first as he pulled the mask free, but when he lowered them down again George saw what Ranboo was afraid of. 

An old scar, one that stretched over the right side of his face and up just beneath his nose covered one side of his lip and warped it like old wood. George couldn't quite tell what would have caused it, be it an injury or a burn or something, but Ranboo shifted to the side so that it was less visible, since George was on his left. He glanced around his familiar room, from the boat in the drydock to the holes in the ceiling, as he waited for George to say something. 

“Right,” he said instead of talking about it, “Are you comfortable starting?”

Ranboo’s shy eyes flickered over to him, and while George had seen the man clearly before, without the dust mask he seemed more open, unabashed in the way he reassessed him, and he opened his curved mouth to ask his question.

“What can I tell ya?”

So George began his inquiries. 

“Just for the sake of the record,” George said, “Can I get your name and age, details about where you went to school, maybe your relations to anyone else in town, if you have them?”

“Oh, oh yeah. Uhm. My name’s Michael Sawyer, but a lot of people call me Ranboo after, uh, after my father. I’m seventeen, home schooled, so ya know. I’m not related to anyone else in Fenborne but my mom lives in Cut Off, ya know? Just over the waters, a bit. Ya can drive, too.”

“No higher education?”

“No. Just some old engineerin’ notebooks,” he laughed, “I got some writin’ and readin’ skills from the other people in town, but all my maths came second hand from notes.”

“Is that how you got into the boat business?”

“Yeah, that and the fact that livin’ around here means needing to go out on the bayou occasionally. It gets necessary.”

“Understandably. Now, has the news of what happened here five years ago affected your business or anything in the town that you’ve noticed?”

Ranboo pursed his lips, the warped edges of the right side becoming tighter as he moved, but it didn't pick up on the camera. Instead all it saw was his chest rise and fall as he sighed. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I have. People used to come here in the summer for the crawdad haul in the summertime, but now, well. We still host the luau each year, but no tourists, just us. It ain't so bad, but it’s a little sad. Not to mention people go elsewhere for their business. Since people ain't coming here as much anymore, the swamp is getting reedier and weedier, ya know? Good for the bugs but not so much for travel. There’s this poor guy out of town, he comes over here every so often to do his business, buy essentials, whatever, but since the town got bad he’s been getting bad too.”

“Is it this person the same who refused to be interviewed before now?”

Ranboo’s face changed when George asked the question, and he suddenly became very thankful for southern hospitality. 

“It is. He’s friendly just… not good with outsiders. I hate to use the word, but that’s really the best way of puttin’ it. I don't know where exactly on the water he is, but someone knows. Just not sure who.”

“Right,” George accepted the answer easily, taking a glance at the footage the camcorder was recording and noted how the thick fog outside was lifting, letting some weak sun slip through the clouds and then through the holes in the roof. He continued after a moment, his notepad of questions for Ranboo still filled with scribbles and markers. 

“And do you believe people are exaggerating what happened here? Or their reactions are?”

“People didn't have much to come here for even when the kiddo was alive,” he said, “Just the once-a-year cookout and the occasional specialist work. But now there is no reason, none at all. Some nay-sayer says our town is cursed and, well,” Ranboo shrugged, “I’ve heard weirder voodoo. Besides, it’s in the town’s history.”

“Oh yeah? What can you tell me about it?”

“My dad wasn't superstitious enough to tell me details, but if you wanna know, ask Tubbo, he’ll entertain the question, or better yet if you can stomach him, his dad. The guy doesn't believe it himself, but when you're told stories as a kid ya remember it for a while, huh? Yeah. Tad abrasive.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Probably on his porch, rocking. He’s retired, or so he claims. Tubbo runs the little store with his friend, Tom or Timmy or something. His friend’s often around but turns shy when hard work shows up. Don't worry about it.”

Ranboo said it so nonchalantly, leaning back properly on the worktable

“And this guy's name?”

“Schlatt. Jay’s his middle name, not sure about the first, so call him Schlatt. He’ll tell ya to get off his marsh-grass lawn.” 

“So Schlatt first, then Tubbo. Strange names, do you think?”

Ranboo shrugged, his fingers grazing the sides of his dust mask as he held it in his lap, but he did speak up after a second. 

“Around here it seems pretty normal. Maybe ya just think differently.” 


	3. Schlatt

_ My first impressions of Fenborne were mixed. While the town seeps with history which has no doubt come from the years prior of supplying fish and transport for the other nearby towns, Fenborne has all but been taken over by the marsh. Every tree in the town's centre has Spanish moss hanging from the branches, and spider lilies grow at the base of Cypress trees, growing tall from the wet earth. Gravel roads lead around the town, each building just far enough away from one another to be out of view, and yet it's possible to remember that there must have been more before the ferry to Dulac closed.  _

_ The first resident I encountered owned the drydock on the north side of town, Ranboo, who inherited the business two years prior. When I asked about how the lack of goodwill in the local area surrounding Fenborne was affecting the town, he had no hesitation in answering.  _

_ “People used to come here in the summer for the crawdad haul in the summertime, but now, well. We still host the luau each year, but no tourists, just us. It ain't so bad, but it's a little sad.” _

_ Ranboo also pointed me in the direction of another, slightly older resident who he believed might be able to tell me more about why this had happened. _

.

Schlatt’s house was on the opposite side of town to Ranboo’s, accessible by a back road but the gate had been wrapped in chains and locked a long time ago, to the point that it was too rusty to get through. The humidity in the air probably affected it more so than the rain, but no doubt both had a heavy hand in it either way. The back porch leaned out onto the water of the bayou, its floorboards on stilts and with an egret on the banister, but George could hardly see it through the bushes and other greenery that lined the water’s edge, instead getting a clearer view of Schlatt’s property. As he came up to the chicken wire fence, a small mud crab scuttled into the underbrush lining the water, disappearing as the egret took flight. 

He had a tall Cypress tree in his front yard, which ate what little sun came through the fog like it was starving, letting the marsh grass and any other vegetation die beneath its great stretching hands. Biting flies made residence below the tree, swarming visibly at its base but neglecting the rest of the yard, and a single red dragonfly was making them its meal. Schlatt’s home was covered in wooden panelling, as were most of the other houses in the area, but the white paint covering them was grey and peeling, adding a touch of age to the home that it didn't necessarily deserve, and the skirting of the porch was falling off. The house’s occupant, the man George could only assume was the very same ‘Schlatt’ Ranboo had told him about, watched him from a rocking chair on the deck. He didn't look friendly.

“Hello, are you Schlatt?”

The guy stopped rocking, his eyes narrowing at George as he stood near the rotting gate to the front garden – if it could be called that, since it was more like a patch of earth filled with various household appliances. A bathtub was filled with lily pads, a cooker on its side, an ancient looking barbeque, it was a real statement piece. 

“What's it to you?”

“Uhm, I’m a journalist from the Daily Comet, I’m looking to do a piece about your town since the disappearance of Shannon-Eliza Smith, and how it affected the people that lived here.”

“So?”

No other words followed it, and Schlatt started rocking on his chair again. He didn't look old, or even that young, really. It might have just been the unfortunate facial hair and baseball cap that were aging him, plus the fact that he was about as thin as a branch. 

“I was pointed in your direction by the man who runs the drydock, Ranboo. He said you might have some more information on some suspicions people in the town carry. I was wondering if I might be able to conduct an interview with you about it?”

Schlatt stopped rocking again, but he stopped looking down his nose at George and sat up slightly, making himself look taller and less like a defeated old woman. He gestured with one hand for George to come closer, and after he had unhooked the gate and come up to the porch, Schlatt kicked out a wooden stool from beside him, putting the ashtray on the floor, and gestured again silently for George to sit down. Before George could mention it, Schlatt spoke up.

“I don't want you recording me. Just take notes, okay?”

George pursed his lips but nodded, taking a seat on the short stool and getting out his notebook and pen. Schlatt was looking out over his front garden and into the shrubs just over the rusty iron gate leading to the cracked road, and George, similar to earlier with Ranboo, could only see half of the man’s face. 

“When you said suspicions,” Schlatt said, voice low as if someone was listening in, “You mean like the normal kind or the abnormal kind?”

He didn't really know what to make of that, so he just answered, “Both.”

“Right. Which do you wanna hear?”

“Is it okay if I take a few credentials first? Age, full name, education background or employment?”

“Call me Jay Schlatt, that’s all you need to know.”

“Are you uncomfortable sharing the rest?”

Schlatt looked at him out the corner of his eye, and even though his expression didn't change, in the low light on the porch it came across as harsh. His gaze flickered back to the greenery.

“I got living relatives,” he said, “and I’d rather them not know more than they already do.”

“They know you live here?”

“They do.”

“Right,” George said, making a note, “Well, if it can't be helped then it can't be helped. If you could tell me about anything to do with the ‘abnormal’ that you said you knew earlier, that would be great.”

“Not many people start with that one,” Schlatt said, but before George could speak up, he started his spiel. 

“Right. I got all ‘a this from my mom so don't judge me too hard, yeah? She was a weird bitch, but whatever. You don't need to know that. Basically, she said, like, years and years ago something died here and they cursed the place on the way down. Before she passed four or so years ago – “

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Nah, I’m glad she’s dead. She passed, but before she kicked the bucket she was like, ‘that murder is going to haunt us! It’ll be more potent since it's more recent!’ and I was like, ‘yeah hurry up and die already’, and she did. Now, this was like, I don't know, a few weeks before the guy, White, was caught. And low and behold, we’re on a streak a’ bad luck. I’m not saying that it’s to do with the old dead thing, she said it wasn't human, but it’s a funny coincidence that she was right. She was always burning this weed-scented incense stuff, it was supposed to be like sage or somethin’, but the moisture got to it and it stank, but she said it was to keep evil or some shit outta the house, but it never seemed to work. For one, she was still in it.”

Schlatt laughed at his own joke, tossing his head back in a way that reminded George of his editor or of someone equally powerful, but Schlatt just looked like some guy out of any other town in the south. He was wearing overalls, for god's sake, how could you call him anything  _ but _ southern? 

George finished up his note, shorthand, and looked up at Schlatt again to ask his next question.

“So it’s a superstition about someone who died here ages ago? And it’s some kind of reawakening?”

“Sure. But,” he looked at George properly now, “I need to make this clear, since she always corrected me about this. It’s not someone, but a  _ somethin’ _ . I think it might have been a deer, or maybe a dog or somethin’, but I’m not sure. It’s dead so it doesn't matter, point is the kid being killed, poor girl, she’s still out there somewhere and my dumb ma’ thought she’s caused all this shit to happen again. You know during the Spanish flu, like 1920 or somethin’, like, seventy-five percent of the town died? Crazy. But yeah, apparently it's a curse or whatever.”

George nodded along, but after a few seconds of silence, he looked up at Schlatt. Something about the Cypress tree in his yard must have been really interesting, since he was just looking out into the world, a million thoughts in his head but none of them related to what he was seeing. It was the classic example of someone making their own fun by thinking things through, and as Schlatt was demonstrating, it often led to nothing at all. He leaned up slightly so that his back ached less, and he asked his next question.

“So what can you tell me about your other theory?”

“My based-in-reality one?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Dream did it.”

He paused. Schlatt wasn't looking at him still, and he found himself thankful, since it made asking the next question easier. Cicadas buzzed nearby. 

“Who is Dream?”

“Dude out on the water. I knew you’d ask that question since folks don't like talking about him,” Schlatt looked at him briefly before going back to his free entertainment, “but yeah, the dude on the water. He used to do a lot of fishing for the town, a real socialite and sold to the places nearby, Dulac, Chauvin and Montegut if he felt like taking the trip, but mostly here. Crab, bass, mullet, carp. Whatever. He used to make a great catfish braise, too, but after his buddy White got found out he’s a no show. As far as I’m aware, he doesn't even fish for anyone but himself anymore, and that’s just sad.”

“How so?”

“Everyone knows cooking for yourself is no fun. It’s when others get to it that it turns good.”

Schlatt seemed eager to talk about food instead, and while George was at least slightly interested in the cuisine the bayou had to offer, he steered the conversation back on track.

“So what makes you think that Dream did it?”

“He’s turned into a fuckin’ weirdo, that’s why. Socialite turned dude with too many ‘fishing’ knives. He still lives in the swamp, for fucks sake. Like, get a life, jeez.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“No, he’s just. Ugh. He’s anxious, and I get being shaken by that kinda thing, I really do since White was his friend and all, but five years later? A guy in the town, Sapnap, runs the hotel slash restaurant place so you’ll see him eventually if you stay, but he invited Dream to live there instead after it all happened so that he wasn't literally living in the middle of nowhere and the guy refused. Who does that?” 

“And is your opinion a popular one?”

“Hell no, don't tell anyone I said that shit. Someone’s bound to get talking, being a small town and all.”

Schlatt did that thing where he laughed at his own joke again, the rocking chair letting out a squeak as he went too far back, but George ignored him in favour of going over his notes. When he glanced at some of the ones he had made when talking to Ranboo, he asked his next question.

“Who do you think I should talk to next?”

“About Dream or about the town?”

“Either.”

“Sapnap or Niki for the town, and Sapnap or Tubbo for Dream. Sapnap gets cagy about Dream now, so he might not be so keen on talking. People keep making hints that Tubbo is my son, but don't believe ‘um, he’s just some dumb kid who talks to me too much.”

“Noted. Any other parting words?”

“Don't stay too long,” Schlatt said, leaning back in the rocking chair and closing his eyes, letting the baseball cap slip over his face, “The air gets to you if you’re not used to it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, PROMISE there's more shipping in the next chapter. 
> 
> This fic has been doing pretty badly compared to my other ones that I've done so far, and the only real reason I can think of is that I posted the first two chapters on xmas day :/ If you are enjoying this, please let me know! It's been kinda disheartening just seeing this one sit here with hardly any interaction to it lol. if you have left comments/kudos already, thank you, they really do mean the world to me :)


	4. Tubbo

_ It seemed that some residents of Fenborne had superstitious beliefs behind why the town had gone into disarray, with Schlatt discussing with me a curse which had apparently been affecting the town before the murder in 2016. While it was not obvious if this was a popular opinion, and often when I had asked others they had brushed it aside, there was some suspicion in me that this was not just the retelling of an old Folk tale. The smirk on Schlatt’s face reminded me of an otter; seemingly innocent until it dropped a rock to break a crab’s shell or ripped the gills out of a fish. _

_ My search for answers and information led me further into the centre of town, where, as Schlatt and Ranboo had directed me, a local store sold fresh produce and some other general items to Fenborne’s population. The man who ran the store, Tubbo, and his friend Tommy were more than willing to answer a few of my questions.  _

__

_. _

__

The air was getting slightly cooler as the day began to die, but as George weaved his way through the shadows of the great trees in the centre of town he approached Tubbo’s store, undeterred by the mosquitos beginning to take flight. It was around March, and while further north some areas were still contending the battle between rain and snow, further south it meant the approach of hurricane season and the preparations towards it. Many areas of town were built on the floodplain, with houses put on stilts and given extensive areas of grass outside them to soak up the moisture, and while George could see the necessity in it he could also wish for the concrete floors of the city he knew back home. Gravel was hardly a great choice if road suface, but again, necessity beat comfort. 

Tubbo’s store was a concrete structure, put on a solid block two feet high and with some chest-fridges out the front. Weirdly, when George peered into them, he just saw brown paper bags with names on them, recognising ‘Ranboo’ and ‘Schlatt’ but staying oblivious to the rest. He didn't know if it was a small-town tradition to name your kids ‘Sapnap’ or ‘Big Q’ (although, he could fairly safely assume that one was a nickname), but he wasn't one to question it. It felt a little out of place, being the only one with a ‘normal’ name, but to everyone else there he might have been the least normal one. Who knew?

One of the bags had been broken, and green peppers spilt from it. They were everyone’s groceries, George could now safely assume. Since not much vegetation grew out on the bayou they’d have to get it from the next town over. It was nice for the store to ask people what they wanted and get it for them though. 

Inside the store, through those plastic curtains people were a fan of putting in fridges, was a large ceiling fan, which blew hot air around and into George’s face as he walked inside and was the most immediate thing he noticed. The store was a bit like a run-down 7-11, with concrete walls and a stained linoleum floor, but as soon as he stepped inside the blonde teen behind the counter ditched his magazine and went into the back room. George just watched him go, ignoring the ill-feeling of being unwelcome, and went over to one of the drinks fridges on the far wall. Arizona Iced Tea might not have been his drink of choice, but it was better than the full-sugar Fanta which tended to only make him more thirsty. As a different, brown haired teen came out the back room, George smiled at him and went over with his drink in hand. 

“Sorry about my friend,” the guy behind the counter said, voice as friendly as anyone who trusted the world completely, “He’s just shy when it comes to actually doing any work.”

“It’s okay,” George said, putting the drink on the counter, and as the other guy keyed in the barcode he spoke up, “Do you know where around here I can find someone called Tubbo?”

“You’re looking at him!” The teen, Tubbo, said with a smile, “What brings you by?”

“I’m a journalist from out of town, looking into the affects that awful murder had on your town’s economy and the people in it. Do you own this business? I was wondering if I could interview whoever did.”

Tubbo’s smile seemed to fade slightly, but George felt more normal in the run-down store than he had anywhere else in the town so far, and he could only hope that Tubbo was willing to talk to him. 

“I do,” he said, then added, “mostly. Schlatt’s the owner, pays the bills and whatever, but I run the place. What kinds of things are you asking?”

“Just some general stuff,” George said, but Tubbo’s face didn't change, and he continued, “like I said, about how the murder affected your business, whether things are improving now that it’s been a few years since it happened, and if you feel as if it’s still affecting the other people in the town as much as it used to.”

Tubbo wasn't looking at him directly, and instead of answering straight away he picked up the jar of change on the counter and turned it so that the label, which George hadn't read, faced inwards. He then opened his mouth to respond. 

“On one condition,” he said. 

“Okay?”

“Tommy joins me, and we get interviewed at the same time.”

George paused, then, “Who’s Tommy?”

“Blonde guy. He was here when you came in, you saw him, right?”

“No, I did, just… yeah. Names to faces and all that.” 

Tubbo nodded, then when George didn't say anything further he said, “I’ll get him in a second. The drink is $3.25, please.” 

Tommy was bubbly, enthusiastic, and took all of the questions George was trying to ask Tubbo and ran a mile with them. 

“Oh, yeah,” he said with an accent more similar to a Georgia native than a Louisiana Cajun, which Tommy had been quick to tell him when he’d asked, “The murder did a real number on the place. We’re glad just to have the non-perishables like bottled water and tins, since some of this stock is years old.”

Tommy also didn't seem to have any qualms in being on camera, although he did take up the majority of the frame, even with the carefully selected mosquito repellent in the background. Tubbo was in frame too, the skin of his thumb by his mouth as he tried to remove it without creating a wound. Where Tubbo was in a cotton shirt, denim jeans and flip flops, Tommy seemed fine in his vest and cargo shorts, finishing the pairing off with a dirty pair of once white sneakers. They looked just as old as he was, and George wondered if Tommy had older siblings who gave them to him. 

“Something I've noticed,” George said, “Is that a few of the people I've talked to haven’t had Cajun accents, and you guys seem to speak English more than French. Do you have any insight into that?”

“Fenborne got rebuilt a bunch,” Tubbo answered him this time, even though Tommy had opened his mouth, “Hurricanes ripped the first town away, then it happened a couple more times. We’re only here because there were foundations and a neat little cut through to Dulac. We moved in around 1950, not sure where everyone’s from, but my family is Floridan. To be honest if another storm were to wash us away, I doubt anyone would come back.”

Tommy was nodding, solemnly, and said, “Cursed earth, yeah.”

George glanced at him. Tommy’s hair on camera looked filthy, but in person it just seemed wet with sweat. His hands, however, were definitely stained with something that looked a bit like engine oil.

“What do you mean by ‘cursed earth?”

“You talked to Schlatt, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m surprised he didn't tell you, then. That old crow always likes to talk about his imaginary mother for points. He believes some shit about an old curse coming back when someone is intentionally killed.”

“So what caused the curse?” George asked, “Schlatt did mention it, but he said something died here, like an animal. I was wondering if you two could tell me what it was.”

“Bird.”

“Dragon.”

The two of them looked at one another. George looked from Tommy to Tubbo and back again. 

“Catfish.”

“Crawfish.”

“Naw.”

“If you don't know, it’s fine,” George was quick to say, “It’s just an interesting point, something about the town’s history, so it’s more background for the piece than – “

“It was a unicorn.”

The voice came from behind him, at the entrance to the shop, and George first saw the polite smile on Tubbo’s face, the shock on Tommy’s, and then the act of god that was the voice’s hair. Blonde, chaotic and everywhere, the man’s hair stuck out in every direction like he had been electrocuted on the way down to the shop, and the waterproof overalls he wore were a disgusting shade of dark green. He was simultaneously beautiful and horrendously ugly, a bit like how some people praised the butterfly for its colours while shunned it for being an insect, and George was too stunned to say anything at first. 

“A unicorn?” Tubbo said behind him, still being recorded, and the guy nodded. 

He was carrying one of the brown paper packages from outside, the ones George had seen labelled with names, but annoyingly this guy had unintentionally covered the white strip of paper with his arm. When he came closer George noted the sun freckles across his face and exposed shoulders, and he had a slight smile on his face. When he spotted the camera, however, he stopped. He eyed it and spoke up again. 

“Yeah,” he trailed off when he glanced at George, “is that yours?”

“Yes, it is,” he said, and launched into his spiel his editor had given him, “I’m doing a piece about how Fenborne is doing after that awful murder five years ago, I’m sure you’re familiar, but I’m focusing on how businesses have been affected, how other townsfolk are recovering and whatnot. Tubbo was just telling me about how Fenborne has been rebuilt a few times since people first settled here.” 

He seemed to accept the explanation, but he still didn't come any closer. He raised the brown paper bag at Tubbo and nodded slightly. 

“Thanks,” he said, “I’ll get the payment for my next one on Thursday, okay?”

“Okay,” Tommy said for him.

“May I ask,” George spoke up just before the other man turned around to leave, “Would you be willing to be interviewed too? The more accounts I have the better.”

He seemed confused. “Why?”

“Just… It’s cool if you don't want too, but like I said I’m trying to get as much information as possible to get a better idea of how people feel about living here. I’d really appreciate it if you could, but of course don't worry if not.”

Tommy and Tubbo were silent when the stranger opened his mouth to speak again, but to George’s surprise, he responded, “Sure.”

“O-okay,” George stuttered, and the guy smiled slightly. He was taller than George had initially noticed, not that it was relevant. “Would you be willing to be interviewed today?”

“Tomorrow would be better,” he said, shuffling the package of groceries in one hand, “Ranboo knows where I live, so he’ll be able to get you there.”

“Do you live on the water?” George asked, remembering Schlatt’s mentioning of ‘Dream’ from before, along with the warning it came with. 

“I do,” he said, nodding in a way of saying goodbye, before leaving through the plastic curtain and disappearing on the other side. 

There was a pause among them, none of them speaking, but then Tommy broke the silence. 

“Do you know who that was?” Tommy asked, and Tubbo seemed a little shaken. Smiling politely, worried, and shaken. 

“No,” he said, “is it important?”

“Naw, no, only he’s refused to be interviewed in the five years since that kids murder.”

George didn't say anything, but Tubbo spoke up in his place, “That was Dream. He lives on the bayou.”

“Yeah, I kind of guessed. Schlatt mentioned him.”

Tubbo looked away, awkward, and Tommy used his arms to brace against the counter behind him. It was just starting to turn into the evening outside, hardly visible with the fluorescent lights of the store, and when George glanced again at the plastic curtain that separated inside from the outside, looking after where the mysterious ‘Dream’ had gone, Tommy spoke up with some sense of finality.

“Dream isn't a bad guy,” he said, “but if you don't come back tomorrow night I’ll call the cops for you.”

“Don't be dramatic,” Tubbo elbowed him.

“What? And let him drown out there too? Last thing we need is more damned bad luck. I’ll call them to drag you out.”

Somehow, even with that… choice of a departing promise, George didn't feel too great about his chances. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream is here! Horray! 
> 
> Progress has been sort of slow since the last chapter, but I'm still working on the next chapter so there might be a little while between this update and the next one. Let me know what you think!


	5. Sapnap

_Tubbo and Tommy had done little to answer my questions about how they were affected when Fenborne had been dragged into infamy, nor anything particularly useful about what Schlatt mentioned, but they were more than willing to tell me the prices of everything within the store. Their parting words were, worryingly, a promise to call the authorities should my meeting the next day not go according to plan, but they also pointed me in the direction of my lodgings for the evening._

_‘Old Star’ was the next place on my search for answers, and the one I had expected to be the most useful. While many places within the watery barriers of the town had become run down and warped with extreme weather, the Old Star was supposedly a beacon of hope for the town, and one of the last remaining lines to the rest of the world. While some had cited the place as a tourist trap, or otherwise a leach on the town’s side, as I looked up at the dilapidated paddle steamer I couldn’t help but feel as if I was being welcomed for the first time since getting there. The owner, Sapnap, sat me down with a large glass of ginger beer and spoke my worries away._

.

‘ _Old Star’_ , no other words, adorned the outside of the grounded paddle steamer and the sides of the gangplank leading up to its deck, and while it was obvious the boat was no longer in service, it was miraculously one of the most looked after buildings he had seen so far. The paddle wheels at the back were still filled with thick-growing weeds, but the paint on the side was a fairly new light blue and white, the poles making up the outside were silvery in the evening light, and the little bulbs hanging off the rigging were on, as if the _Old Star_ was expecting more than just George to be a guest there. He hadn't booked ahead, and while George was near certain that there would be vacancies, if worse came to worst he could sleep in his car back at the last grounded bit of road. 

It was the most east-ward building (if it could be called a building) in the town, on the totally opposite side to Schlatt’s house, and while the river behind it continued to make its merry way downstream the decision to ground the thing was intentional. A hole was in the bow of the ship, around three feet high, and someone had the brilliant idea to fill that section of the hull with two deck chairs and a plastic skeleton. George eyed it as he made his way up the gangplank, but as he reached the deck of the boat his eyes were drawn to the well-lit area inside the front doors. 

A bar, maybe a restaurant, was on the first floor of the boat and looked like something George had seen in a movie, glowing amber with the old filament lights and smelling like old smoke. He could hear the American flag on the top of the boat sway in the gentle breeze, which had helped clear the fog and make room for a nice evening outside, and as the sky faded from baby blue to pink to navy, George entered the bar on the paddle steamer.   
It was like stepping back in time. Someone was in the corner reading a newspaper, another table had two others enjoying a plate of calamari or something else deep-fired, and the guy behind the bar was wearing a relaxed white cotton shirt, his hair hanging limp in the humidity as he looked up at George. 

“Well,” he said, and he sounded young, “You must be the reporter I’ve heard about.”

“I didn't realise you knew I was here,’ George admitted, looking down at the polished bar and seeing his face in it, “Is it really that big a deal?”

“It is. Small town, some people get talking. I assume you’re here to ask me a few of your questions too, huh?”

“It depends. Are you Sapnap?”

“The very one.” 

Sapnap picked up one of the crystal glasses from behind the counter and polished it with a grey cloth (one he suspected wasn't that colour to begin with), and while George could clearly see that a lot of work had gone into keeping the place up and running, the signs of age were clear too. Some of the brass features were tarnished, upholstery a little tired looking, and one of the stools near the bar was missing its footrest. Many features were original, fixed up so that they were authentic, but he suspected that if Sapnap could afford to replace them he would have. The bar was one of the only points of interest for Fenborne, and while people from nearby towns and such still visited, he suspected didn't bring much money into the town itself, only recycled what was already there. 

“Then yes,” George said, “I’d love to interview you if you’d be willing. Are you okay with being filmed?”

“Only if you get the bar in the background.”

“Pride and joy?”

“You know it.” 

Sapnap was the first person in Fenborne to cut a clean figure. His unstained white dress shirt was tucked into his black slacks, a pair of suspenders keeping them up, and paired with patent leather shoes, he looked as much out of the 1910s as the bar he owned did. Apparently he’d inherited it after his father had already run it aground and called the person who gave it to him a ‘piece of shit crook’, and George had tried not to raise an eyebrow when the other man told him of that fact, word for word. 

As he brandished the glass and cloth, Sapnap nodded with his own words and spoke with his eyes closed like someone who didn’t need to be reassured of the truth, and George had no reason to doubt him, especially since he could see the boom-stick behind the bar, put on a plaque and mounted in a way that clearly showed the other man could still get it down if he needed to. While the bar was in as good a condition it could be, it was somehow fitting that it was a little run down, since George couldn’t imagine a town like this having a saloon in any other condition. He obviously cared a lot about the place, even if he was humble in how he described it, and the few people in the seats seemed to like it too. If the place was closer to home, George could see himself going back.

“It’s not much,” Sapnap said to him, the camera trained on his face with ample view of the alcohol on the shelves behind him, “but it’s mine and I wouldn’t give it up for the world. It’s a real shame what happened those years ago, and it’s life ruining for a lot of us, not to mention the kid and her family, but thankfully this place has managed to stay afloat. You might not believe it, but I’ve heard some people come down here for the sake of tourism but they don't want to go too far into the town. Sad, but I’m doing what anyone would by accepting it.”

“Do you think the tourism to your bar is helping the town?”

“For sure,” he said, picking up another water-stained glass, “I get most of my product off Tubbo, for food and non-perishables anyway, so I pay him. When I need to go upstream to Dulac I get Ranboo and give him something for it. Schlatt’s handy with plumbing, Niki knows woodworking, and Eret,” he pointed over his shoulder to the hatch leading to the scullery, and further, the kitchen, “is a good worker, knows how to cook. It ain't much, but I don't sit on the money I get, even if it’s nice to have. Where I can I go through people I know for what I need.”

“And do they recognise that?”

“Sometimes,” he said, then laughed slightly, “Some people don't want the charity. There’s these guys, metal workers on the north edge of town, they don't take too kindly to me trying to pay them but they still accept the work.”

“Interesting characters?”

“Not really. They work in Dulac, too. Call them Techno and Fundy. Not their real names, of course, but what they still go by. You seen them yet?”

George thought back to the guy he’d seen walking along the road when he was first on his way to Fenborne, then said, “Not sure. Would you say they’re worth talking to about this as well?”

Sapnap shrugged; an easy motion that George followed with his eyes, and he seemed like the kind of guy who would smoke cigars if they were still in fashion. He put down the next glass and grabbed another one. George’s cup of cola sweated on the counter, even as the night outside grew to a manageable temperature. 

“Techno doesn't take well to strangers,” Sapnap told him, “but with Fundy you might have a chance, a slim one but still a chance. Depending on what you say he’ll either be cold or downright frosty. I wouldn't bother them.”

With that lead going to nowhere, George changed tactics and asked the next question on his notepad, one he’d hastily written down after his interaction with Schlatt earlier that day. 

“Apologies if this is a little out of nowhere, but someone I talked to earlier, Schlatt, mentioned Dream.”

Sapnap’s dark eyes flickered over to him, and while his body grew stiff with the mention of his old friend’s name, he didn't pause his motions with the glass. He could see what Schlatt meant when he said Sapnap got cagey at the mention of his old friend. 

“And?”

“I’ve managed to get an interview with him,” George admitted when he realised that Sapnap was fully within his right to kick him out, “with Dream, I mean. I was wondering what I might be able to expect from him and if you had any advice. Schlatt mentioned that you and him were close before everything went down.”

His hands paused. Someone in the bar was still talking quietly, and the green flashing light on the camera was broadcasting to everyone that he was still being recorded. Sapnap put the glass down on the counter, and when George glanced at the movement he could see the underside of Sapnap’s chin and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed. 

“You talked to him? Dream, I mean?”

George nodded, electing to ignore the way Sapnap’s voice had gone soft and croaky. It was somehow becoming a secret that George had managed to talk to the man out on the water, even managing to snag an interview, as if it was taboo or incorrect for him to have done so. Sapnap swallowed again, leaning a little bit further back so that he wasn't quite as much in George’s space, and his dark eyes caught the light as they flickered around the bar. George resisted the temptation to turn around and look, and he kept a keen eye on the other man’s face. Nervous, excited, worried. Every expression he made was both a warning and made George want to ask for more information.

“What… what did he say?” Sapnap asked.

“I had been talking to Tubbo about a story Schlatt mentioned. He came in to pick up one of those pre-paid bundles of groceries and I managed to ask him for an interview. I'm not sure why, but he agreed.” 

“No other mentions?”

“I asked if he lived out on the bayou before he left, but other than that no. The whole interaction was less than two minutes.”

Sapnap put his elbows on the counter, leaning down so that he was almost equal to where George was sitting, and he hurried to adjust the camera so that Sapnap was still in frame. He didn't seem to care, too focused on looking like he’d just stumbled across a dead body. His hair, where it had previously just looked long and dark, sleek even, seemed more bedraggled. 

“Did he seem okay?”

The question made George look at Sapnap again, focusing on the slight downturn of his mouth. 

“As well as I can see,” he said, “I don't know him well enough to give you any definite answers. Tommy and Tubbo didn't seem surprised at the sight of him though, so that might mean something to you.”

Sapnap nodded. “I guess it does,” he said, “just… the last time I saw him was around three years ago, after White’s trial. They were gonna give him the jab, you know.”

“The jab?”

“Lethal injection.”

“Ah. That’s gone through now, hasn't it?”

“It got delayed,” Sapnap said as he leaned up again, and George hurried to adjust the camera, “I think it’s due for June next year, but don’t quote me on that. They might still be waiting for the kid to resurface. Who knows?”

“Right,” George scribbled a note down to check the date of White’s execution, “I’ve been meaning to ask about this too, but did Dream seem, I don't know, off when news of all that got out?”

Sapnap barked out a laugh. “Yeah. finding out a guy you were trying to make better is an evil son-of-a-bitch tends to shake people, you know?”

“And how did Dream react? Some old interview tapes said you were with him when you both received the news.”

Sapnap looked at George and then away. He drew a shaky breath and said, “Dream took a seat on his porch, put his hands in front of his mouth and didn't move for five hours straight. He didn't even seem surprised when the police showed up to question him. I was – I shouldn't have said everything I did, shouldn't have said it to Dream or even in front of him, but White was someone I knew, you know? Not necessarily my friend since I always knew he was a bit of a creep, but he was still someone in town. We talked.”

“Was it a surprise to you then? About White?”

“Yes and no,” he sighed, “White had moved out of New Orleans after a few felonies he did as a kid. He wanted to escape the news of it, his infamy, and came over here instead. He still had family and whatnot back home, but Dream, since they were around the same age, I guess he thought he could fix him or something. I wasn’t surprised he did something, just about what it was. He was always a creep.”

“What kinds of things had White been up to before moving to Fenborne?”

“Theft, vandalism, stuff that sounds bad on paper but always excusable when he did the big-eyed plea. I think he could have improved if he had really wanted to, but when you don't face consequences as a kid you don't think they’ll happen to you as an adult either. I just wish he hadn't chosen to set up here.”

“Do you believe it was an intentional choice?”

“Yeah, yes. No way it couldn't have been. This town isn't even on the map, you know that? You don't find this place without looking. And back when White came here we were working on generators, too, no power. He came here intentionally, I just wish I had seen it sooner.” 

Sapnap wasn't looking at him, or really at anything, as he said those final words with the weight of someone that blamed themselves. It was clear to George, not just in the way Sapnap had said it but in the words he’d spoken, that he blamed himself in part for what had happened, even though it had only been the fault of White, the plan made by him alone, and something that no one could have seen coming. As the cicadas and crickets, frogs and crawfish sang out the window of the bar, George asked his final questions for the evening before he intended to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

“Can you tell me where abouts Dream lives? Ranboo said he’d take me but doesn't know himself.”

“I’ll tell Ranboo for you, since he’ll probably make better heads and tails of it.”

“And, well, lastly, do you have anything you want me to ask Dream tomorrow? I can ask on your behalf.”

Sapnap looked at him, his soft brown eyes reflecting the amber light of the bar, and he was back to who he had been before George confessed to seeing his old best friend. His lips were bitten, George hadn't noticed him biting them, but when Sapnap opened his mouth the flesh was wet. 

“Yeah,” he said, “Ask him this for me, yeah?”

“Of course.”

“Ask him what happened to the kid.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!   
> Next chapter has George travelling out to see Dream out on the water. Stay tuned to see how that works out ;) 
> 
> Also, let me know what you think of this! I feel like this fic is bringing a new definition of slow-burn to the types of fanfics I write, so I'd appreciate any feedback. Enjoy!


	6. Dream

_I could not help but feel anxious on the flat-bottomed boat as it skidded along the silt-filled water of the bayou. It didn't seem too deep, maybe only three feet or so, but without being able to see the muddy bottom nor the creatures living beneath its surface, it was impossible for me to let the idea of something beneath the waves of the boat go. Ranboo guided the boat with the accuracy of a professional darts player, his wild hair no longer being held back behind his goggles, although he still wore the dust mask along with it. His arms were a deep brown in the 11am sun, and somehow, the memory of him promising to come get me at 5pm if he didn't hear from me or Dream was a welcoming one._

_Humidity seeped into the air, the smell of decaying duckweed was strong, and as we approached the long dock off of Dream’s home, I saw an alligator slide off a fallen tree and into the all-obscuring waters surrounding us._

_._

Ranboo whistled as he worked the engine, and George could hardly hear him over the roar of it. 

George had awoken with the soft morning light coming through the porthole window in the ‘Old Star’, when the birds had only just started to sing and the quiet serenity of morning had broken. He remembered the golden light now, no longer as subtle but still apparent in how it made the dirty water look almost like a mirror, and while the Spanish moss no longer looked like yellow lace hanging from the trees, it still gave him the impression of some delicate thing. Ranboo’s arms, he noted, were much darker than his face and gave the impression of hard work without the action itself, and as they reached the edge of the swamp the flat, deforested areas of the south-west bayou came into his view. 

Out here was where the good fishing was, he remembered from his discussion with Sapnap that morning over breakfast, and while the man had seemed more composed than the night before he still apologised for his way of talking. Regardless, he was out in the open water, skirting the edge of it and keeping the swamp on their right, and as the water got wider Ranboo’s whistling got clearer. The go-pro on the front of the boat was angled so it could actually see the water, rather than rising with the boat’s bow, and the one on the stern caught the waves coming from the engine. He could see crawfish nets, buoys for the soft-shell crab catchers, and even the signs of fishing spots against some of the reeds sticking out of the water. A pelican soared overhead and then against the tops of the water, coming in to land on one of the waves made from Ranboo’s boat. 

If he was a good swimmer he could reach the ocean in a matter of hours, but the vegetation would easily stop the boat’s rudder and strand them out there if they changed course.

“Ya good?” Ranboo yelled at him, and George just nodded, appreciating the breeze now that they were moving faster than walking speed. 

Hums of mosquitoes, the fresh scent of water, and the strength of the sun had his back. But just as soon as they were making it across the outskirts of the swamp, Ranboo turned the boat to the right and cut the engine, letting the boat skid the top of the water as they re-entered the heavily wooded waters. There was a clear path forward, one which had been cut through on account of the fallen trees, and while George could definitely tell that someone lived there, there were crawfish pots lining the edges, after all, it was also apparent that this was a route less travelled. Duckweed spread over the still, sunny waters like hands from the underbrush, and George could see spiderwebs catching the light between some of the branches. Other than the boat on the water, now with the oppressive noise of the engine cut, he could hear the cicadas awake once more, along with the calls of birds and some other animals. 

They moved along without any problems, Ranboo’s whistling coming in shorter, more subtle bursts of a song George didn't recognise, and as they turned one final corner George saw what they were there for.

Dream, fishing line in hand, sat on the end of a long dock out into the waters of the bayou. On the end of the dock closest to the small island was his house, a single story and relatively small, but connected to a few smaller buildings by what looked like some wooden bridges. It was too far away to see, but George couldn't tell whether or not the house looked to be in better condition than some of the other buildings he’d been to so far, like Ranboo’s drydock or Schlatt’s awful porch. For all intents and purposes, this looked more like a home than any of the other places he’d been to as well. 

Dream stood up at the sight of Ranboo and George, reeling in his line and putting the fishing rod down onto the dock, and as Ranboo slid the boat across the water Dream threw him a mooring rope to tie off the boat. George hurried to retrieve his go-pro from the bow of the boat, and after he had the little camera in hand, Dream reached down to help him up.

“It’s good to see you,” George said as Dream’s sun warmed and work-worn hands gripped his, pulling him to the dock.

“It’s good to see you both too,” Dream responded with a small smile.

“You’re still alive out here, then,” Ranboo said, pulling a few other things from the boat.

They looked mostly like packages or letters, only ten or so in total, and Dream grabbed them without needing to be told. Ranboo didn't get out of the little boat, and Dream didn't offer, but it didn't seem like they were unfriendly.

“Yep,” Dream said, “It’ll take more than the dry season to kill me. The rainy season I gotta watch out for.”

“Only a few months, might come early for all we know,” Ranboo tisked, adjusting his safety goggles, which he was still wearing for some reason, “If you need a ticket out of here, you know you can call.”

“Of course,” Dream said, and George could see how he was genuinely pleased. 

“Radio me when you need to leave, yeah?” Ranboo was talking to him now, “I’ll be around, but after dark it gets tricky to navigate, so… yeah.”

“Thank you, I’ll bear it in mind,” George promised, and Ranboo untied the mooring rope. 

George and Dream stood in the brilliant midday sun and watched Ranboo return to civilization. Thankfully, with no awkward pauses, Dream turned to him and took the first step that George had been dreading. 

“Want to come inside?”

“Where would be most comfortable for you to be interviewed?” he asked, but Dream was already moving up the long dock towards his house, letting George trail behind him and take in the surrounding area of chocolate-milk waters and bright blue skies, not to mention the great areas of shade cast over the water further towards the house. As he got closer he saw that some areas of the building were either under construction or just poorly put together, such as some areas on the porch which were unpainted or had pulled up boards, and a windchime sat limply in the humid day. 

A parrot or something flew away at the sight of them coming closer, its vibrant green body disappearing into the swamp, but Dream didn't even seem to notice, too focused on leading George towards the house. 

“Do you want to do it outside?” he asked when they reached the porch, “It’s a bit messy inside, but we might get the noise of birds or something out here.”

“Where would you rather?”

Dream paused, glancing at him before saying, “Outside, preferably. How about you go around to the back porch, it’s just around the corner, and I’ll go grab another chair?”

George shrugged, and as Dream went inside he made his way around the outside of the house until he saw a lawn chair propped up on the decking. It seemed worn, with a couple of the plastic bands across its seat snapped already, and the back door beside it was open. A screen door stopped bugs and whatnot coming in, but if George cared to look he could have seen a couple of kitchen counters, empty. Similarly to Schlatt’s place, there was a wooden stool acting as a table, but instead of an ashtray and burnt-out cigarettes on its surface there was just a half-drunk bottle of water, some fishing tackle and a glass with some sticky residue in the bottom. 

Dream appeared in the doorway with another chair, a pretty standard wooden one that it looked like came from a dining table set, and he put it down beside the lawn chair. Off the back railing of the porch was more swamp water, and Dream pulled a fishing rod out from behind a banister, where George couldn't see it, before adjusting it to be on his side. The line was in.

“I’ll take the plastic one,” he said, “and you can set up the camera wherever.”

“Do you want me to avoid pointing it at your face?”

Dream seemed to hesitate before answering, “I don't mind.” 

The answer caught George off guard, but instead of questioning the man when he was clearly already uncomfortable he just stepped over the lawn chair and over to the dining chair, unpacking the tripod and setting everything up. Dream disappeared inside for a second time, but George could see him through the screen door with a jug of ice, some red-ish powder, and then a bottle of cold water. He came back out with a jug of Kool-Aid and two glasses, setting them on the stool and putting the half-filled bottle of water on the floor to make room, and he let George assess the camera further before speaking up again. 

“You all set?”

“Nearly,” George responded, “Just need to take the lens cap off and get my notes out and we’ll be good to go, if you are too, of course.” 

“Yep.”

Dream’s shoulders were tense, jaw set, and staring straight ahead into the stained-glass leaves of the bayou as they cast their green-tinted light into the murky water. He could hear birds out there chirping, but George had no idea what or where they were, since all he could see was some amount of water and a huge amount of greenery. Reasonably he knew that they had to be out there somewhere, but with no direct way of seeing or hearing them, putting noises to animals, it was a little disorienting. Nevertheless he pulled the lens cap off the camcorder and got out his page of rough looking notes and questions, before turning the camera on. 

“Alright,” he said quietly, as if he was trying not to spook a deer, “We’ll start with just some basic stuff. Could you give me your full name and date of birth please?”

“It’s Dream, Dream Clayton. I was born August eighth 1999.”

“Do you have an education history? Like did you go to college?”

“No. Just middle and some notes from other people’s high schools.”

“Did you not pass?”

“Never attended.” 

“And were you born here?”

“No,” Dream said, and George looked up when Dream was already answering the unasked question, “I was born in Florida, Tallahassee if you need to know.”

“What made you move to Louisiana?”

“Money, mostly,” he chuckled, looking past the camera and at George, “I was only about fourteen when I came out here, inherited the place off my grandpa when he passed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Long time gone.”

“You were awfully young coming out here at fourteen,” George was writing this down, “what made you move?”

“I just,” he stopped, breathed, either remembering details or trying to forget them and George watched as he moved like a rockface threatening to collapse. 

George didn't say anything, watching pebbles fall off him and into the waters below, but Dream somehow managed to keep it together when he looked like he was falling apart. 

“Reasons,” he stated, “family stuff. I’d rather not get into it, if that’s alright.”

“That’s fine, I don't think it’ll come up. Uhm,” George turned the page to disguise his reaction to Dream’s sudden sombre admission. The noise of the paper seemed harsh in the quiet moment between them, but he found another question to ask instead. “Ranboo told me you used to have a fishing business?”

“I did.”

“Do you still?”

“Not really,” Dream admitted, seeming better put together than before, “but I’m working on something else. I don't know if you saw it coming out here but there’s a power pole fairly close by, and I’ve managed to get not only radio but electricity and internet up. I… yeah.”

“Is your business online?”

“Mostly, yeah. I tend to do research, very rudimentary stuff, about what fish I see and things I catch and I get compensation if I keep track of it and send it off. There’s a word of it, ecology or something.”

George smiled, thinking about Dream just hanging out on the dock all day, watching the birds fly by and pulling gar out of the water. Something about it seemed natural to him, like it suited him as well as his clothes did.

“Is it good to you?”

“I make less than before but,” he shrugged, “I don't spend much now and I never did then. It’s decent.” 

“What made you decide to change?” George asked.

Dream paused to have a drink before answering, and George eyed his throat as it bobbed. The midday sun was still beating down outside the porch, but a very slight breeze came through the bayou and ripped the duckweed infested water, and he could hear the windchimes out front clank together, sounding like bells. No cicadas screamed. No crickets chirped. It was them in the wind and that was all. 

“The times,” he stated, putting the glass down, “just… when everything came along and got stirred up all the places around here were looking at me. I didn't want to leave since, you know, this is my home, and people in Fenborne are great, but…”

Dream sighed, a heavy type that George could feel before he continued, “people were hounding me. I was in the blue about all of it until it happened, and I only knew as much as everyone else, but just… the questions, police talking to me about it, reporters showing up in town, and even Sapnap was asking me back then about whether or not I knew anything. It was impossible to tell people who already had it in their heads that I knew something that really I knew nothing. I was accused of being guilty without a trial, and when I showed up with a fresh catch no one wanted the fish but they wanted answers I couldn't give.”

Dream’s face twitched, he leant forward on his elbows, and he didn't look at George or the camera. He asked the begging question.

“So why did you agree to be interviewed with me?”

“I figured the news wouldn't be as interested, and you're here to talk about business, not the kid. I’m sure there’ll be a few more people popping up after you’ve been and gone, but it’ll be easier than before. No more national news stations asking for a comment, waiting around town or where I used to sell for me to show up. It was just… I feel bad for everyone else, but it was _awful_.”

“So are you making your statement now that it’s died down a little?”

“Yeah.”

“And do you believe the press was wrong to ask questions of that nature?”

The atmosphere he had forged was without comparison. If George didn't know better then he might have said there was a storm on the horizon, given the heavy humidity, the charge in the atmosphere, the mugginess, the crickets beginning their nightly opera. It wasn't late, but he saw the way Dream glanced at him as if to make sure he was still there, a reassurance of his presence, or perhaps it was suspicion. 

“No,” he admitted with some difficulty, “looking back on it, I think they were right to.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I have my reasons. There’s always the talk of people closest being the most likely killed, and then if that’s not the case, then they're the next suspect. At the time I was just so lost that I couldn't see the wood from the trees, and having people try and hunt me down to get answers to something I couldn't fathom was… distressing, to say the least. I thought they were accusing me, and to be honest, they were, but it felt unmotivated at the time. I thought they were just picking on me for no reason, rather than, well, honestly natural suspicion.” 

George nodded, his notebook forgotten when he took in the sight of Dream’s long eyelashes fanning over his freckled cheeks when he closed his eyes for a second, his forgotten tumbler of ice in his hand when he took in the sounds of their breathing and the general noise of the bayou. Just as George was about to open his mouth, to ask a question or make some comment that he wouldn't be able to remember, a clap of thunder echoed from the general distance and rumbled closer. 

“Storm’s a comin’,” Dream said with an accent, chuckling slightly to himself, but he looked at George with a more serious expression on his face, “Probably the heat and humidity. Not to mention the south-to-north wind. You might wanna get out of here before it hits.” 

“It was a clear day when I got here,” George said, looking through his many notes.

There were still questions, points, ideas and all sorts that he hadn't had a chance to ask, and since this was the first interview Dream had ever accepted it seemed like it was destined for him to remain an isolated, untouchable figure out on the waters. Dream seemed to see his distress though, and as the taller man stood and turned off the camera for George he started talking over the battering of the leaves off the side of the porch. 

“I’m going to radio Ranboo and see if he can come out. Might already be on his way if he saw the clouds. How long are you here?”

“I’m leaving on Monday,” George said, “Two more nights.”

Dream didn't respond, but he left the screen door and the back door open for George to come into the house, and as he collapsed the tripod and pulled the camcorder from it he made his way inside and out of the wind. 

The sound of the windchimes was stronger now, and through the slats in the shutters he could see the dark southern clouds approaching them, thankfully without more thunder but still menacing enough to send a message. Dream was kneeling beside a very old looking base station radio, listening in to the headset and waiting for someone on the other side to talk, but while the man was distracted George glanced around the house. 

For a building on stilts, Dream’s home was more function than comfort, and yet there were still obvious signs that the place was well cared for. Since the house was made of wood George could still hear the wind wailing on the outside of the building like an animal trying to get inside, but the grey-painted walls were doing a fairly good job of keeping it out. There was only one room, and George guessed that one of the walkways off the porch led to a bathroom, but the rest of the room was taken up by a bed, kitchen area, small dining table and a desk which had the radio beside it. The desk had a modest computer on top of it, the tower of which was on the floor, but the screen was black. Fishing tackle and rods, along with a pair of off-green waders and a wide-brimmed hat were all beside the door, neatly put away or thrown on the floor. He could see an open wrap of tools, things like spanners and screwdrivers, along with a pair of fishing knives which George tried not to stare at. The carpet in the centre of the room was blue, rectangular, and not actually a carpet but a towel. 

“Problem,” Dream said when he removed his headset and looked over to George, “I think the power is out.” 

“You think it is?”

Dream reached up and flicked the switch on the wall as another wave of wind and fine rain came over the window, rattling it in its frame, and the exposed bulb in the middle of the room did not turn on. 

“So we don't have a way of telling if Ranboo is coming?”

“Unless we hear the roar of the engine, no, not until it comes back on.” 

George got an uneasy feeling deep in his stomach, a weight dragging down his diaphragm, his lungs and heart, and he tried not to let his voice quiver. 

“When will that be? Any ideas?”

Dream didn't exactly seem pleased by it, but his answer was at the very least concise. 

“When the storm dies down.” 

Another clap of thunder came from outside, closer than before and loud enough to make George jump, and just as he was about to open his mouth to say something, anything, to the man crouching on the floor beside the radio, rain fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter has some revelations in it, and I'm officially halfway through writing it! Hooray!   
> Let me know what you think! Comments/kudos/bookmarks give me life <3


	7. George

_ It was an unexpected and unwelcome realisation that the power had cut out, and with the storm outside getting stronger by the moment I doubted that Ranboo would have come to pick me up that evening even if I'd promised him diamonds. Dream’s own boat was in much worse condition than Ranboo's, and so without another option, I took Dream’s offer to stay. _

_ What surprised me most about the man was how normal he was. He ate the ice in his drink when he had finished with it. His fridge had green peppers and onions inside it when he went to throw out the milk. He talked like anyone else in the country, his Floridian accent not thick enough to be noticeable and it was filled with the Cajun twang from years of being in the area. But simultaneously, behind this appearance of normality, questions were continuously being raised in my subconscious.  _

_ Why did you move here when you were so young? What prompted you to befriend White when you seem so nice and he turned out so terribly? And did White ever tell you what he knew?  _

.

He hadn't wanted to become a reporter. He hadn't wanted to move to America. He hadn't wanted to come to Louisiana, and he hadn't wanted to meet Dream. 

And yet here he was, camera rolling, the man’s blonde hair a halo in the subtle golden candlelight, and the storm outside doing its best to prevent them from being able to hear one another, let alone understand the emotion on their faces. 

They lit candles like a pair of witches and arranged them in the centre of the dining table, not caring if the wax leaked down and ruined the varnish on the wood, and the jug of Kool-Aid Dream made earlier was half drunk. It wasn't a surprise that the storm had broken. From the heavy humidity following him from the office in Dallas all the way down here, to the mist the previous day, and even the brilliant sunshine and heat of that morning, the fact that George hadn't seen it coming sooner was not only stupid but a little embarrassing. The south had weather too, he felt like telling himself now, how did you not know? 

“I spoke to Sapnap before I came here,” George said when Dream put his glass down, “And he asked me to ask you a couple of things.”

“I do feel guilty for not talking to him,” Dream said immediately, and his eyes looked amber in the light, “but he and I reacted in different ways. Polar opposites, almost. He shouted and cried and screamed and got mad and I just… Went in on myself.”

“He wanted to know if you’re alright,” George said instead of addressing the information Dream just handed over, and the taller of the two leaned back in his seat. On the camera, his face was hardly visible now, only lighting up his nose and the most out-of-place hairs in front of his face. It was barely past four in the afternoon, the sky was dark. If George cared to look he would have been able to see a thin sliver of light on the southern horizon, an indication of the end of the storm, but he was too busy looking at the downwards slant of Dream’s lip. The man opened his mouth.

“As well as can be,” he settled on saying with a bit of a distracted tone, “considering everything, I could be a hell of a lot worse.”

“How do you mean?”

“Part of me wondered if White had considered me instead of the kid. It probably would have been easier for him to disguise how I died than with Smith, the kid.”

It was a realisation, again, George cursed himself for not having sooner. Dream seemed mostly alone out there, and other than the seemingly recent developments of the electric radio and internet connection, he was as disconnected from the outside world as it got. The slant of his lips grew deeper as George failed to respond, and he hurried to make some noise, raise a question before the man housing him came to a decision about… something. 

“What makes you say that?”

Dream’s eyes caught the light from where he was leaning back in his chair, and George could see him looking at him.

“Common sense,” Dream told him, “I was alone out here, with only Sapnap and White knowing my location on the water and with neither of them owning a boat. The only people suspected would have been White and Sapnap. The only person to come looking would have been Sapnap, and even still depending on the way he killed me I could have disappeared completely. Alligators in the water, catfish eating anything that rots and a whole plethora of bottom feeders like crabs would have ensured nothing left of me. All he would have had to do was kill me and tie me to something far out enough. Hell, he knew how to use my boat, even if he didn’t have his own. Could have been an accident. Could have been a mishap.”

Dream finished the statement with a sigh, but he looked at George directly as he asked a question of his own. 

“Before coming here, and be honest with me, did you think I was involved with this?”

He could hear the rain on the corrugated steel roof. As the storm reached its eye George opened his mouth.

“I didn’t rule it out.”

“So why did you agree to come out here alone?”

“Because you’re still a person and you deserve to be seen as that. I’m not a fan of the ‘guilty until proven innocent’ mentality a lot of networks do to get clicks and viewers.” 

Dream finally leaned forward into the light, and George could see the slight sheen of wetness to his eyes as he spoke up again.

“Just for me?”

“For anyone,” George promised. 

There was a moment where only the sky spoke for them, and the candles on the table burned the wax as if they were never going to run out of it. He could hear the faint sounds of his own breathing, a subtle undertone to the conversation, and before George could reel in the ‘interview’ (if it even  _ was _ an interview at that point), Dream decided to do it for him.

“What made you come to Fenborne?”

He tilted his head.

“I think I said, or if I hadn't, then I’m not doing a great job here,” George disguised his uneasiness about being questioned with a chuckle, “and besides, I was told to come get a story.”

“You didn't choose this one?”

“I did, but the other one I could have picked was in Venezuela and I didn't feel like leaving the country.”

“Afraid of South America?”

“Of flying.”

“So why are you in the USA?”

“I had a… an agreement with someone to come over and I decided to stay.” 

Dream chucked lightly to himself, and asked, “Is that a business kind of agreement or a one-on-one thing?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“I get to find out?”

George only realised his mistake when Dream commented on it, and he felt his mouth go dry like he had sucked on a lemon, which made Dream cackle like a madman and lean out of the light. Only his forearms and hands were exposed. He tripped over finding something to say.

“No, well, Uh – “

“No, you don't have to tell me,” Dream struggled to tell George around his own laughter, “It’s okay.”

The wind rattled the windows in their frames, and the slats in the shutters seemed to almost move when the rain slid down the outsides of the panes, but George wasn't paying attention to the light show outside, more so the quiet, unexpected contentedness that came from being with Dream in the dark. He’d heard the stories, the claims about the evillest people being the most charismatic, but Dream didn't seem particularly false in the way he smiled, in how he lost his breath every time he laughed, and in how he was still incredibly awkward despite George’s best efforts to comfort him before the interview. All it did was come across as charming. 

The storm’s eye came overhead. The wind died down suddenly and only the faintest sounds of rain scattered across the roof. The wicks on the candles were short, but the fire they held long, and he could see the eyelashes on Dream’s face. 

“I mean,” he tried to brush off the awkwardness, “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Huh?”

“About why you came here.”

“I told you already,” Dream said, his voice coming across as awkward, “I inherited this place.”

“And why did you come here at fourteen?”

The conversation, or interview, was back on track but Dream’s exposed emotions didn't bode too well. He looked torn, turning his face to one side when another flash of lightning came through the shutters, almost as if he didn't really want to admit to George, to the camera, about why he had come to this cursed town in the first place, and to be fair George could hardly blame the man. Nothing good seemed to have come out of this place since he apparently moved there, and based on the date of birth Dream had given him, he would have been only just sixteen when the murder occurred. 

The eye passed. The storm raged on. 

“I was running away,” Dream ended up saying, “I didn't like my situation, and I looked pretty old for a kid who was only just fourteen, so I left and got away with it. When the world came knocking I, well, my family overlooked it and never came up to me.”

“Was Fenborne just somewhere to get away from whatever was troubling you, then?”

Dream nodded, his face still turned away from the candle light and the weather outside, and as the eye of the storm passed the wind began to shake through the bayou once again. A noise like a horrible accident, a tree snapping and breaking only thirty or so feet away came from outside, with Dream turning around in his chair to look in the direction and George staring the same way, and as the tree smashed into whatever was in its way, thankfully away from the house, the sound of hail came from above. In the void the tree left, nothing took its place for a long while. 

“I’m not sure,” Dream eventually said, loud enough to only be heard over the hail, “But I think that’s what I found here.” 

“Did you know anyone in the town before coming here?”

“I hitched a ride with Ranboo and his dad, and his father let me stay with them when we figured out exactly where this place was. I only knew them at that point by accident.”

Another sound of thunder, the sound coming a few seconds later from the north. It was a more subtle sound now, a backdrop rather than a full-on intrusion, and it really felt like Dream and George were actually alone for the first time since they had been forced to move inside. The hail was still spitting onto the roof, however, so it was gone but not entirely forgotten, and something told George he ought to finish this soon.

“Sapnap asked me to ask you something else,” George said, perhaps unwisely, “about the kid.”

Dream sighed; a heavy, already dead thing before it came out his mouth. 

“I knew he was going to ask you about that,” Dream said, raising a hand to his face and pressing thumb and fore-finger into his eyes, “he was convinced I knew something about where she was buried or hidden or whatever. White’s house has already been demolished, a fallen tree made sure of it, and there was nothing reported in the wreckage. If the kid is still out there, she’s buried in the swamp, but no one, and I mean  _ no one _ would be able to scour the whole damn ten-mile stretch that makes up this swamp, not unless they had a dinner date with an alligator to get to, at least.”

“You sound pretty certain.”

The comment was mild, half-hearted in the face of Dream’s rising frustration with Sapnap’s old words, turned into George’s new ones, and he cringed when he realised the implications.

“I’d be dumb not to be certain, since it’s been five years, she hasn’t been found, and we live in somewhere most people would call the tropics. Things decay within a matter of  _ days _ out here in summer, and paired with ants, flies, predatory reptiles and fish, hell, unless that kid is in a welded box or mummified in someone’s attic, I don't think we’re getting her back in any way, shape or form.”

“Do you think the ongoing investigation should be closed then?”

“If I say it should be closed then I’ll be back to being suspect number one,” Dream leaned away from the light, “and if I say it should stay open then people will question me again anyway. There’s no winning.”

“But off the record?”

Dream’s eyes met his.

“To you alone?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Will you turn off the camera?”

They stared at one another. Without looking away George reached to the camera, to the power button, and once Dream saw him turn it off and slip the lens cap on he opened his mouth to speak. His teeth caught the light. 

“I think it should stay open,” Dream said, “White  _ was _ a welder, and a sick mother fucker at that. I thought he could change, could do better now that there was less to affect and more of a community backing him, but… but he welded frogs into boxes and cracked them open weeks later to see what they looked like. I thought he could be better, but obviously not. I have no idea if the poor kid had that happen to her, god I hope not, but if a metal box is found out here somewhere then I wouldn't be surprised if it was a coffin.”

George stared at him and he heard the beginnings of crickets outside the dark room, rain on the roof, heart in his chest. Wax pooled on the table. The drinks collected condensation. Dream’s breathing was calm, eyes solemn. 

“You didn't tell the police this,” George said, “I saw the records. You didn't say.”

“I mentioned the welding,” Dream told him, “But the thought at the time was too grim to bear.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, very ill at the moment so I havent been able to proof read this. If you notice any glaring mistakes, let me know! I'm very tired lmao 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I really love reading comments on my work and it makes me want to write more :)


	8. Eret

_I didn't know what to make of Dream. There was something so potently tragic about his image, about himself when he had let me set up on the porch and record his face, especially given his reluctance to be interviewed in the past, but given the nature of these accusations I could hardly look a gift horse in the mouth and question him too much._

_As the tropical storm blew in half an hour or so later, and the power cut off, our interview moved inside where we lit enough candles for the camera to see us by. Not everything we discussed can be written about here, and yet I felt myself know Dream in ways no one else – not his estranged parents, his friends, nor White – knew, and given the nature of the context behind this piece, I began to understand why Dream was reluctant to be interviewed before._

.

George sat motionless, mute, numb in the quietness of Dream’s home for a moment, his mouth dry and thoughts scattered across the floor like dice; trying to find the right answer to what Dream had revealed. There wasn't one, certainly not with how Dream looked ready to destroy himself at the admission. The camera was off, George remembered distantly. Something bad could happen and they’d never know, aside from Ranboo’s promise to come back, Tommy’s one too, and all of his connections from outside of the town. He still needed to tread carefully, even if he was under the impression that Dream wouldn't hurt him. 

“Uh,” he said, which didn't make the other man look up.

“There’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve already said – I’m guilty until proven innocent,” Dream mumbled into his hands, “but I can’t live like this anymore. I can't be the only person in the know.”

George found his tongue.

“I don't know if there’s a way to tell the police about this without them questioning you.”

“I know.”

“So,” George said, soothing a wolf, “I think… maybe we should tell Sapnap.”

Dream looked up at him through the slits in his fingers, and as he did George could see the beginnings of a returning daylight outside the room.

“I don't want to tell him.”

“Then let me tell him,” George said.

Dream was quiet for a good, long moment, long enough for George to hear some of the returning noises outside. Rain still fell on the steel roof of the house, and he could tell that the wind was as vicious as it was before, but at least the eye of the storm had passed. The roar of an engine, Ranboo’s boat, came from the distance, far enough away for George to hear it but realise it wasn't close, and they were together on borrowed time.

“Why?”

It was a simple question, but one George could hardly find the answer within him to hand over. Dream looked at him over his folded hands, eyes calm, shoulders tense. The vest he wore showed off the muscles in his shoulders, and while not particularly impressive, George knew there was strength to them. 

“Sapnap will freak, that’s for sure, but he wanted to know,” George paused, but he spoke up again just as Dream was about to open his mouth, “and he seems like a smart guy, like he knows everyone and that he’ll be able to, I don't know. He seems like he’ll think of something. Do you think that?”

Dream didn't move again, his hands still before him and his eyes still heavy lidded. He didn't look tired in the candle light, given that it was immediately below them both, but George could see that there was something lingering beneath the surface that he couldn't quite see. Dream answered. 

“You’ll tell him?”

His voice was hoarse. 

“Only if you want me to.”

The roar outside from Ranboo’s boat came to a stop at the end of the dock. Dream stood and George knew it was time to go.

Fireflies replaced the stars as Ranboo guided them both back to civilisation. His whistling was more sombre, more relaxed in the twilight of the evening, and in the far distance George could see the orange of the clouds turning a rubier shade with time, and the engine was more of a purr than a vicious roar. Dream’s email address lingered in his phone, a ‘just in case’. George didn't glance at the screen. 

As the cicadas began their orchestra, Ranboo pulled up to the drydock and decided against asking George what happened. 

Sapnap’s bar was empty by the time he made his way back, with Ranboo waving him off at the centre of town, where Tubbo was packing up the shop, Tommy was watching him pack up the shop, and Ranboo disappeared to grab his groceries before Tubbo told him to go away. It was a small thing, giving Ranboo the fifteen bucks for the round trip, but the man had smiled with his eyes and said thanks like it was worth more than that. George tried not to let it sink in too deep.

But Sapnap’s bar was much the same as it was the night before, save for the fact that it was slightly earlier in the day, now only six at night rather than seven and a Saturday instead of Friday. The insects outside refused to make their way too far inside, despite the promising light, for the fact that someone was smoking a cigar just inside the building. He could tell the person had been asked to smoke it outside before, but there were only so many times you could tell someone not to before you came to a compromise. The person eyed George as he came into the bar, but George only had eyes for Sapnap. 

“Hey,” Sapnap said as George slid into the seat at the bar, “What can I get you to drink?”

“I’ll just have a soda, whatever you have in, please.”

Sapnap eyed him for a moment, looking George up and down as he leaned heavily on the bar top, btu he didn't say anything as he got a glass and poured a drink over the ice, and then handed George the drink. George muttered a ‘thank you’ and held it close to him, but after a moment he spoke up.

“I talked to Dream,” George said as a way of starting the conversation, and Sapnap raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah? How was he? You look like you’ve been dragged through hell or something.”

George huffed a laugh and raised the glass to his lips to take a drink, and Sapnap turned away to grab his polishing cloth and another glass. It seemed his work never stopped, even with the only other patron being the person smoking in the threshold, and the kitchen was quiet. Lights off. They must not have been serving food, George realised, and so all the people who would usually be eating were gone. 

“He seemed okay,” George said, “I haven't met him before but he seemed more nervous about being interviewed than anything else. I asked him your questions too.”

“Did you get everything you wanted?” Sapnap asked, ignoring the lead George gave him.

“Mostly. He wasn't able to answer a couple of things.”

“A shame,” Sapnap said with a shake of his head, “But you still managed the impossible, talking to him on camera, no less, unless he asked you not to?”

“No, he was fine being recorded. That’s partly why I think he was nervous.”

“Right.”

Sapnap put down the glass and grabbed the next one, raising the cloth with it and rubbing it around the rim. The action was soundless, and it made George feel like he was breathing too loudly in the quiet, amber light of the bar. He noticed now how Sapnap had his own drink behind the bar, something that looked a bit like wine but it was in the wrong glass. Then again, wine glasses were always a pain to drink out of on account of the stem, so maybe the other man preferred a straight one. 

“I’m surprised you’re not asking more questions,” George admitted, sitting back in the chair, “I thought you’d want to know.”

“I could say the same thing. Dream always had a habit of leaving people with questions, regardless of whether he did it intentionally or not. Do you? Have questions, I mean.”

“Sort of. I’m not sure how to tell you this, though.”

“Rip off the band-aid,” Sapnap told him and put down the glass, “it hurts more for less time. You can talk to me.”

George took a breath to settle himself, looking into Sapnap’s dark eyes as he waited for him to say something, and eventually George found his words. 

“Dream thinks we should keep looking. That the kid is still out there, I mean.”

Sapnap’s eyes widened slightly, and his head tilted back to look at George properly, but he didn't say anything for a second. A moment passed, maybe two, before he said something about the revelation.

“Oh,” he said, “I wasn't expecting that.”

“Neither was I,” George said, “Since, you know, this is as close to the tropics as you get outside of Florida, and if the kid was out there still then the body would be unrecognisable, but he mentioned something… disturbing, perhaps.”

“Go on.”

“White welded, right?”

Sapnap looked like he didn't really know where he was going with this, but he nodded. 

“Dream said, well, he said White welded things into boxes, frogs and whatnot, and then cracked them open later to see what they looked like. I’m sure you can get what… what I’m implying here.”

A wave of different emotions passed over Sapnap’s face, each as indescribable as the last, until he settled on something George expected. Expectant. 

“He never said that,” Sapnap said, “he never – he never mentioned it. And Dream told you this? You got it on camera?”

“I asked him if they should close the case, and he said no, then cited that as the reason why. He wouldn't have told me unless I turned off the camera, and, well, I don't know what to do about it so I came to you.” 

Although, as he said it, Sapnap didn't exactly look like he knew what to say either. Considering the bomb-shell of what Dream’s words, filtered through George, meant, he couldn't exactly blame Sapnap for the mixture of concern, disgust and anger on his face, and all George could do was hope that it wouldn't end up being directed at him. He could hear the faintest noise of a radio from the kitchen, and as he waited for Sapnap to say something, he could hear the cicadas outside too. Even with no one cooking, even with the only other person in the bar being on the opposite side of the room, and even with his own breathing being shallow in anticipation, the noise was overwhelming. 

Then, Sapnap spoke up.

“Dream never said.”

George could do little else but nod. Sapnap put down the glass. 

“We need to call the cops,” Sapnap said. 

Three things. Panic, standing, and grabbing Sapnap’s wrist. George and Sapnap looked at one another over the mirror-sheen of the bar, one of them wincing at his actions and the other stoic, calm, like a landmine waiting to be stepped on. Without a trace of emotion in his voice, Sapnap spoke up.

“George,” he said, “Let go of me.”

“Dream would get arrested if you talk to the police about this,” he said in a rush, “He’s already been through shit and everything would get worse around here if we get the police involved, especially if we mention Dream’s comment.”

“If they find the kid,” Sapnap pulled his wrist but George held on, “if they find the kid out there on the water, imprisoned in some box, I think Dream’s case will be the least of my concerns.”

“Do you not care about him?”

“I do,” Sapnap snapped, “I do and I have no idea why you think keeping this– this _thing_ a secret is a good idea. You hardly know him, but I do, and I think that kid deserves to be found regardless of whether or not Dream wants her found.”

“There’s a better way to do this,” George pleaded, and Sapnap wrenched his wrist away.

“Get talking,” he told George. 

“We look for her ourselves, or we give an anonymous tip, or Dream tells the police himself, or, or _something_. We make it look like you or someone else or an innocent from another town over had a brainwave about where the kid might be, and for all we know, the box might not even be out there. There might not even be a box.”

“There might not be a coffin, you mean,” Sapnap corrected him, “There might not be a body.”

George was silent for a moment, looking at Sapnap with an unknown expression on his face, and for a moment the other man didn't do anything but look at him. Then, all fight gone, he sighed. 

“Look,” he said, “The kid is dead. There is no other way of putting it, but if we’re going to pretend that alligators, catfish, and crawfish have left the body alone out there, I want to ask you something before we do. Okay?”

George nodded.

“Take a seat,” Sapnap told him.

After doing so, Sapnap stood with his hands grasping the bar behind him, looking over at George with his brows furrowed. His hair was in his face, the only part of his image that looked out of place or chaotic, and George felt both better and worse off. In the moment, he could almost count the seconds before Sapnap kicked him out and called the police. 

“Why do you care about Dream?” Sapnap asked. 

Taking a second to find his words, George spoke.

“He’s very much the wrong person who was there at the wrong time,” he began, “And even though I get that you know him more than me, you said it yourself that he wanted to help White out and got involved in all this by accident. When I was stuck out there with him in that storm, he didn't do anything I would consider strange or concerning, and I do, genuinely believe he’s a good person. It would be a damn shame if he got locked up for White’s actions, and it would be a damn shame if the town was without him.”

Sapnap listened to him in silence, his hands still gripping the bar top behind him and his arms still doing that thing where they looked more muscular than they perhaps were, but George waited, perhaps impatiently, for the other man to say something. A cool breeze was coming from outside, and George struggled not to put a hand on his neck and stop the chill that wanted to shake through him. Eventually, Sapnap spoke, but not to him.

“Eret, you might as well come in now,” Sapnap yelled over George’s shoulder, and George turned around to look at the person smoking in the doorway. 

“Could you tell I was listenin’?” Eret asked, and George hadn't realised they were tall until they extinguished their cigarette and stood up, “I was just sittin’ there.”

“You’re always listening to stuff you shouldn't,” Sapnap said as the person came closer, and to George’s surprise, he sat next to him at the bar. 

Eret was wearing a vest, sweaty-looking as if he wasn't used to the climate, and he smelt strongly of both aftershave and smoke. Without a doubt George could tell that he had been born and raised in the small Louisianan town, and Eret was obviously someone who had been hit hard in his life. He didn't seem much older than George, but the stoop of his shoulders, the frown on his face and the grease in his hair aged him prematurely. 

“Eret,” he said and stuck out a hand for George to shake, “Pleased to see you.”

“I’m George,” he said, weakly, but Eret just nodded. 

“Yep, that guy Dream sure seems like he’s been dealt a bum hand,” Eret put both hands on the counter, and when one of them left, a five-dollar note was in its place, “Of course, he’s still got his livelihood out there, it’s just his reputation that’s been shot.” 

The soda stream hissed as Sapnap poured Eret a coke, but before George could say anything, possibly about who Eret was or about Dream being alright out on the bayou, Sapnap spoke instead. The five-dollar note stayed on the counter.

“Eret, you’ve heard what George had to say. There’s no point pretending, so let’s get a third opinion, yeah?”

“Tell the cops, say it’s a theory, and leave it all alone,” Eret said, “last thing you want to do is get stuck out here as this can of worms gets opened up again, trust me, it was bad enough the first time.”

“But _how_ would we tell them?” George asked.

“Using a phone.”

“No,” Sapnap sighed, “he means how do we word it? How do we put this together in a way that sounds legitimate and doesn't get Dream into trouble?”

“You really still care about him?” Eret asked, putting the drink to their mouth, “he dipped and didn't speak to you for over a year, Sapnap, and that was after being accused of murder. You can do better, man. What’s wrong with you?”

“He’s still a person in the town,” Sapnap snapped at Eret, who was too busy drinking to reply, “and he’s still someone I care about. Doesn't matter, okay? I don't ask questions about you like that, so shut up.” 

Eret put down the drink. “Right. It’s totally irrelevant. Sure.” 

“How about,” George said, “We ask Dream what he wants to do? He can help us decide, seeing as he threw this curveball at us.”

“At _you_ ,” Eret corrected him, “and now I'm involved in this too. We need to keep this as contained as possible or else someone’s gonna know, and then someone’s gonna tell.”

“There’s a problem with that,” Sapnap said, “I have no way of contacting Dream, and I know neither of you do either. Ranboo would refuse.”

“Correction,” George spoke up, and both of them turned to look at him in surprise.

“He has a phone out there?”

“No,” he said, “But I have this.”

George pulled out his notebook and put it on the bar top, opening it to a specific page. Below all of his notes, additional questions and ramblings that he was going to put in his piece when he got back home was a singular string of words. An email address, made of a word and four numbers. _Dream1999_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, sorry, again no editing. Still sick and been in a bit of a funk. Also my internet died today for about 20 hours, so any time I would have spend editing the google doc was instead used to get annoyed at my wifi :P   
> This story is going to end up being ten chapters instead of the planned 15, simply because I dont think I would finish it if I kept it going now. It's getting hard to concentrate on it where I am, with a mixture of uni, illness and home-life getting in the way, but dont be afraid! I'm working on chapter 10, with it mostly being finished already, as we speak. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please let me know! Comments are brilliant things and I love them so much.


	9. The Water

_My focus turned, possibly unwisely, to the murder of Shannon-Eliza Smith after my discussion with Dream. While I had no doubt the man was innocent, there was also the lingering distaste in my mouth after talking with him when he admitted that the case should stay open. He didn't specifically state why, only that it would make the people who lost their daughter, granddaughter, friend or sister maintain hope in keeping it open, and that he suspected White wasn't one to let things waste away._

_Dream had agreed to meet Sapnap, his employee Eret and I at the ‘Old Star’ on Sunday, and even with his agreement he didn't seem particularly pleased to talk with us and, as I later discovered, his ex-boyfriend._

_One thing that continued to surprise me about this south-Louisiana town was how open and accepting most of the folks around it were of stereotypically non-southern values. I had seen no confederate flags, no guns (aside from the old, civil war era blunderbuss behind Sapnap’s bar), and no backwards thinking. These people were not the stereotypes peddled in the media to make the south seem like an inaccessible and uneducated right-wing dead-zone, but instead a small, quiet town hoping to avoid the limelight. What scared me about Fenborne were not the people within it as I had expected, but the remoteness, the threat of a typhoon blowing them off the map, and the worry that would linger in me by leaving these nice people behind in a supposedly cursed town._

_._

Dream didn't reply until noon the next day, and even then, he didn't sound happy about coming into Fenborne, regardless of what time it was. He seemed even less pleased at the upcoming talk with George, Sapnap, and Eret. 

It was around two-o’clock when he arrived at the entrance to the ‘Old Star’, and he looked about the same as when George had seen him last – off-green waders, orange striped t-shirt, chaotic halo of hair and a scowl that could scare away any unseen horrors of the swamp. He was an opposite to Sapnap in a lot of ways, from his height to his posture, and his piece of reed sticking out of his mouth didn't help. When he spat it off the side of the grounded paddle steamer, George could see the frayed end of it from where Dream had chewed it, and he came inside without an introduction. From the side of his eye, Dream looked at George, but George had no qualms in facing him fully. Eret was over the other side of the bar, just off to the side of the kitchen door, and while they were not officially open until around four, Eret looked just about ready to disappear into the kitchen at any moment. 

Sapnap was in front of the bar, one of his feet up on the railing as he stood with his arms crossed. As Dream entered the bar, the smell of the bayou came with him, fresh and rotting, natural as lilies and potent as engine fumes. When he came inside, he pulled off his gloves. 

“Right,” Dream said when he was between the three of them, “What have you got me into now?”

“Nothing you couldn't have avoided,” Sapnap said as his foot met the floor, “And it’s a matter of what _you_ want to do about it more than what we do.” 

Eret said nothing, looking between the two of them with their leg stretched out over the floor. They obviously knew something George didn't, other than having a history with these two, and George couldn't help but wait to see if the penny would drop. His camera was still in its bag, waiting on the table next to him and with sunlight stretching across the surface, and while George felt the warmth, he didn't get anything from it. Eret was in the dark, Sapnap too, and only Dream’s legs were lit up by the long rectangles of light. 

“We need to see, to look around and just make certain,” Dream said, “But I’d rather not be the one to call in the help.”

“Because they’ll suspect you,” Eret said, “But if they find the kid out there, then they’ll suspect you even if someone else tells.”

Dream nodded as Sapnap spoke up. His arms were still crossed in his near-pristine white shirt. 

“Why didn't you tell them originally?” Sapnap asked, “you had plenty of opportunity.”

“I know I did, I just… didn't know how to say it.”

Something about Dream was different, and as George looked the man up and down he couldn't quite tell what, or why. While George had only really seen him sitting down the day before, both outside, inside, and when he was beside the radio trying to get a signal, he still seemed different from when he had been interviewing Tommy and Tubbo. George couldn't see his face, but there was no smile in his voice as he continued, desperate to break the silence which had settled over them like dust. 

“I had the idea of it after they’d questioned me,” he said, “I wasn't in the interview room, you know, sweating about it or trying to hide it, it only hit me when I was in bed thinking back on how I didn't see it coming.”

“You did see it though,” Eret spoke up and Dream turned to them, but it didn't make them back down, “You said to George, and him to us, that White had been putting things in boxes since he got there, going so far as to show you.”

“Yeah, and I didn't think he’d do it again after my reaction,” Dream said as he crossed his arms, leaning back on one foot, “I told White, straight to his face, that what he was doing with those things was wrong. It disgusted me, I made no secret of that fact, and he didn't show me more than once. That’s partly why I said to you,” Dream turned around and pointed at George, “that I didn't realise until afterwards, and even then, I was too disturbed to tell anyone.” 

“And the only thing that’s stopping you from telling them now is the fact you don't want to be questioned?” Sapnap asked, raising an eyebrow, “that’s a bit selfish.”

“I know it is,” Dream turned to him so that George couldn't see his face again, “I know it is, Nick, but you know what I had when I got here.”

Eret looked away. George tried to figure out what Dream was implying, or outright saying, but Sapnap wasn't biting.

“Dream, if you’re an accomplice to murder I don't care where you came from.”

“I’m not – !” 

“Then you’re obstructing evidence!” Sapnap stood up properly, his arms out, “What do you want me to do about that, huh? White’s house is gone, whatever was left of it after that tree fell and wrecked it has been scrapped, and now you’re telling us you think you know where White hid her? If she is in a metal box out there on the water, then hey, guess what, we can't do anything about it without telling someone else. We’re all just going to have to live in the knowledge that her family is never going to get closure.” 

“Besides,” Eret spoke up before Dream could say anything, “Even if we could keep this quiet, between the three of us or in the town, then guess what? There’s a bomb waiting to go off and he’s sitting right there.”

The three of them turned to look at George, and even though he was still sitting in the sunlight he felt a chill go down his spine as the realisation crossed Dream’s face and Sapnap rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fore-finger. There was a tense, long moment where none of them said anything, but then Dream turned back to Eret. 

“He’s with me,” Dream said, and the three others in the room looked at him.

Disbelief, questions, and anger were potent in the room, even more so than the sickly swamp smell Dream had dragged in, or the smell of old smoke and dust that followed Eret into the bar, and while George was still reeling, Sapnap spoke up.

“You don't _know_ him, Dream!” He said, his voice rising, “You don't know him, you’ve only met him two days ago, and now you’re trusting him, a reporter, with this? No offence George, but you should _never_ trust the news first. They just want stories, things to get money, and then they skip town and leave us to deal with the consequences. You know better than anyone than five years ago White opened the gates to ruin us, and it was the news that acted like crows to pick apart what was left. You can't be serious.”

“Sapnap,” Dream sighed, coming closer, but Sapnap moved away from him and towards Eret.

“No,” he said, pointing at Dream, “You’ve let it get to your head. I always knew that you being out there without anyone to check up on you was bad news, and now you’re like this.”

“I trust him,” Dream said, and he had stopped moving closer as Sapnap grabbed Eret’s hand.

Sapnap shook his head, his limp, black hair going from left to right on the sides of his head and George could only watch the horrible situation at hand unfold. 

“And you could have trusted me,” Sapnap said, and even when it wasn't aimed at him George could feel the bite of the words, “Five years ago, when all this was going down, I offered you my home, my shelter, a space you already knew and trusted, and you refused on account of the press. But then when the press left, and I offered for you to stake out hurricane season here, you refused again. Dream, since that happened you don't trust me, you come forward to me like I’m still someone you love, but clearly you don't. We don't talk, we don't go find one another, and this wouldn't have happened if you had just _listened to me_.”

Dream opened his mouth, desperate to say something, but Sapnap talked over him before he could voice it. 

“You’re so fucking proud,” he said, and the fight within him was fading, “You’re trying so hard to be someone you were not when you moved here that you’re ignoring all the other options, and it shows. Dream, this is the final straw, okay? You don't take help, I see that now, and I’m done trying to force you to take it. Don't talk to Eret or I again, you hear me? I’m done trying to help you. You should go.”

“Sapnap, Nick, I – “

“Go.”

Dream didn't respond to George, but then again, he didn't tell him to go away either. 

They walked down the gravel road east of the ‘Old Star’ together, and while George didn't know where they were going, or rather, where Dream was going and George decided to follow, but for a while they just walked, ignoring the silence Dream wanted and the questions George had. 

But eventually, cutting George off in the middle of his ramble, Dream brought them to a fence and turned around at the gate. George closed his mouth.

“Why are you still following me?” Dream demanded, finally, as he put his hand on the warped wooden gate.

They stared at one another as Dream’s hand clenched the wood, and even though George was still a couple of steps away, he could feel the emotions radiating off the other man. He still had his questions, his camera in the off-the-shoulder bag by his side, but he knew there was no time for it. He could feel the marshy floor seep water into his shoes, like the ground here was particularly waterlogged, and he wished that he’d brought better shoes. And yet, there were bigger things to focus on.

“I have no idea what’s going on, that’s why,” George said, “You just dropped this bombshell on me as if I’d have any idea what to do with it, which by the way, I don't, and now you’re ignoring me and running away.” 

Dream’s face turned sour, but George couldn't find it in him to be sympathetic. Wherever they were, further in land he assumed, was hardly lit up by the bright sunlight of the afternoon on account of the thick, foreboding willow trees and swamp oaks, which ate the sun as if they had never been told to stop. Greedy, George’s mind supplied, and he looked at Dream. He could hear the distant, muffled sounds of birds, hooting and hollering out in the swamp, but far away from where they were now, and his tongue was dry in his mouth. Dream was leaning against the fence now, his arms gripping it too and making the muscles in them look more defined, and he frowned at George until he found what he wanted to say. 

“Yeah, maybe I don't know what I'm doing, but that hardly affects you,” he said, “I’m the one in hot water, and if cops show up then hey presto, there’s a good chance I get the chair, or the jab, or the rope or whatever. The rope isn't used anymore. Either way my neck is on the block, not yours, so there’s no point in you even being upset.”

George folded his arms, but Dream didn't wait around to see if he would say anything, and instead he unlatched the gate and went through into the overgrown mess of whatever was behind it. The air was thick enough to cut through, and yet Dream made disappearing look easy, but the still open gate screamed an invitation if George had ever seen one. 

Through the high, loamy grass George could hardly see anything but the overwhelming greenness in front of him. Yet as he trawled further into the grass, taking time to avoid what puddles he could see and step into all the ones hidden on the floor, he gradually made his way down the same path Dream had until his feet hit cobblestone and the way forward cleared. 

He… hadn't expected a graveyard. 

Although he knew Fenborne had one – he’d seen pictures in Sapnap’s bar of a wedding taking place in a church, two unknown people from years before – he hadn't expected it to be so overgrown, so ill-maintained and so… broken. The tomb-like graves, or vaults, that were known throughout Louisiana were no different here, standing up to his shoulder and the same shape as the coffins no-doubt placed inside them, void of outside sources coming inwards and disturbing the bodies inside. George tip-toed through them, looking over the vaults and through the bushes alongside for the man who disappeared between them, and for a while he had no luck. But when he turned the corner at the back, where a large, selfish oak ripped its roots through an older vault, he saw Dream leaning against one of the graves at the back of the cemetery. 

It was the only patch of sun, coming from the west and lighting the dust in the air like fairies, and while George knew it was probably only about four-o’clock at the latest, he had the impression that in the gloom they might be getting a temporary darkness soon. Despite them being further inland now, George’s shoes made a squelching sound as he walked across the grass. He entered the light. 

“I’m in a corner,” he told George, looking at the white grave, “There’s no different way of putting it.”

George didn't respond immediately, and instead he squinted in the harsh sun to read the engraving on the vault. _Zakarie Cox, Father worth the sun and more, may you rest in peace. 1956 – 2017_. 

“That’s Ranboo’s father,” Dream said instead of an explanation, and the flash of their conversation the previous day, about how Dream found Fenborne, came through his head and George understood. 

“I’m sorry,” George said. 

There were a million questions, but for that moment, he understood. He nor Dream moved, and his shoes grew wetter as they waited in the sunlight. Dream’s arms were brown, his jaw unclenched, his eyes heavy lidded and staring at the vault. George watched him openly, ignoring the sound of a mosquito buzzing in his ear as he waited for something, anything, to be said. Nothing came fourth, however, and he took it upon himself to make a move. 

“What are you going to do now?”

“I don't know,” Dream said, and he breathed out heavily through his nose as he raised a hand to his chin. 

George took a step closer, towards Dream and the unmarked grave he leant on, but he stayed silent for a moment more. The sun was harsh, setting Dream’s wild hair aglow, but George blinked through it. 

“Do you want to come to Texas?” George asked, and Dream’s green eyes finally swam over to him.

“Huh?”

“I live in Dallas, and I – I know this is sudden, don't get me wrong, but I have a spare room, and I get that this is, you know, your _home_ but I don't mind paying the rent for a little bit while you, you know, get set up and stuff. It’s just, I know you don't have many options.”

Dream’s hand was still covering his mouth, but he heard the mumble anyway. 

“You don't know me,” he said.

“I don't, but I know you’re someone in trouble who is as close to alone as it gets. I, look, I can't promise a miracle, but I have a spare room, like I said, and I live near this big lake which has a couple of fishing spots on it which might be looking for people to help out. It’s just…” 

George took a breath to settle himself. Dream’s eyelashes were golden. 

“I’d just feel so bad leaving you out here. You seem genuine and understanding and like you’ve been dealt a really, _really_ bad hand of cards. I can't promise miracles, but I know my house won't lose power in a storm.” 

As George finished his peace, Dream’s hand lowered from his mouth and he looked at George with an indescribable expression, but his arm was crossed over his front like he was feeling awkward, nervous. It was like he didn't know what to say, but he opened his red mouth to ask George a question anyway. 

“George,” he said quietly, “I could kiss you.”

Well, there were worse things to say. 

“So do it.”

It was a soft, silent thing, and George tried not to breathe too loudly in case they woke the long dead. Dream kissed like he had never kissed before – not so desperate as he was tentative; scared to push George too far and force them apart – but still he moved into it and tried not to let his own nervousness show. His hands were sweaty when he put them on Dream’s hip bone through his waders, but Dream’s were too as he ran his hand over George’s forearm, and with the harsh light he could only see the redness of his own eyelids. Dream’s mouth moved down, once, and he pulled back. 

“Are you going back to the ‘Old Star’ tonight?” Dream asked, which, yeah, awkward. 

“My stuff’s there,” he said in a way of a reply. 

“Do you… do you want to come to mine?” Dream asked, “it’s only a single, but my boat’s here and – “

“This is my last night,” George said, “and I go tomorrow. Do you… do you want to come with me to get my stuff or should I… should I meet you somewhere?”

“Meet me at the drydock,” Dream said, “and if you let me go with you tomorrow I can… we can tell someone.”

“Alright. If we go tomorrow, I will come to yours tonight. Deal?”

Dream nodded, pressing his forehead onto George’s and letting their noses brush, their breaths mingle. While Dream’s eyes were closed, George kept his eyes open as the sun slid behind the trees and disappeared into the unseen bayou. Almost immediately after the twilight drew into the graveyard, the crickets began their symphony and the fireflies began to dance. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, no editing again, but the last chapter will be out tonight! Woo-hoo! Next chapter will be shorter though, so that's why its coming out later today as well, so hopefully this longer one makes up for it.  
> let me know what you think!


	10. The Kid

_ Throughout it all, I couldn't help but wonder about Schlatt’s tale of the unicorn. After I had left Fenborne, I did some research into tales surrounding the mythical beast and found a few interesting pieces of note, particularly ones to do with curses like that I had heard in the town. The idea of a unicorn cursing whomever kills it is an unexpectedly new piece of media popularised in the early 2000’s, but its exact origins are unknown. The general idea behind it is that someone kills the unicorn intentionally and brings a curse upon the community they come from, but it begs a simple question; Why did Schlatt cite this to be the curse causing the town’s problems?  _

_ Louisiana has never been particularly well known for creature myths, and what ones that there are typically involve swamp creatures and ghostly apparitions, but this one involving the unicorn is intriguing to me specifically because it seems so… unexpected. A typically European myth in an isolated southern-USA town, and by all accounts, other than evidence of a physical unicorn being killed, it appears to have held true.  _

.

In the end, Dream didn't need to tell anyone. 

Someone was trawling the shallow waters around Dulac, exploring new areas in the hope of finding an untapped crab den or crawfish swarm when the net had gotten stuck. The trawl net was stuck and something had been unearthed from the hidden depths. Through the silt and the heavy algae marking the box’s sides, the man who had pulled it out thought it was only junk, but brought it to shore to show his friend, fishing for catfish with a pogey on the line. Welded shut, they used a screwdriver to pry a damaged side of the box apart. 

Forensics showed that she had already been dead, shot possibly, which lined up with the blood found by the family in the front yard after Smith had gone missing. It seemed like a rush job, like White hadn't intended to dispose of the body in that way, or create one at all, but still the job was done. After the five years buried in water, all that was left of her were her bones and the clothes she had been wearing – jeans, light-up sneakers, and a ‘My Little Pony’ t-shirt. White, contrary to what misinformation Sapnap had told George, was indeed already dead. 

Dream read the newspaper article with interest, seeing how George had praised it and how he had managed to manipulate certain things, and even after his confession to Sapnap and Eret, as one last parting act of kindness, they kept their mouths shut. There was no further mention of Dream’s involvement with White, not in police statements, George’s story, or the initial news articles when the body had been found. 

He drew back from the laptop, the steaming cup of coffee held in both of his dirty hands, and he finally looked up at George and nodded with an impressed expression and nod. 

“Yeah,” he said, “I think you got it.”

“I sure hope so,” George laughed slightly, and Dream stood up from the dining room table to go wash his hands, “it’s been a rough day. My editor was really riding me to include more, but there was only so much I could do, you know?”

“Did he not like the footage?”

“He loved the ones of you, not so much me turning the camera off though. I told him it was to do with your treatment in the interrogation room, and you talked about your family so you didn't want it on camera.”

Dream nodded, finished rinsing his hands, and George passed over the towel so that he could dry them. George’s home wasn't as humid as Dream’s house out on the water, and so his hair wasn't as chaotic as it was before, although it did seem longer, but his skin was just as tanned as before. The fishery on the lake near to George’s house had been looking for people, and George thanked whatever god made him read that edition of the paper, including the job adverts, before it went out to the public. The sun had set outside now, and even with the more urban noise which shook the room in comparison to the nightly insect orchestra on the bayou, Dream hadn't mentioned missing home once. George found it within him to ask.

“Do you miss it?”

Dream chuckled slightly, almost awkward, and he leant his hip against the counter as his eyes moved across the room. Their silence was unbroken, not even by the hum of the air conditioning and the occasional car outside, but then Dream spoke again.

“I do,” Dream said, “I miss it a lot, but sometimes… Sometimes I think of the insomnia, the nights where my only company was my email address and whoever messaged me, and… and my time out on the dock wondering what went wrong, and I don't miss all of it. Sure there’s the house, the different places in town, and Ranboo and everyone else. It was my home you know? But it seemed like a lot of things out there wanted to unhome me.”

Dream leaned against the counter too, his faded jeans and colour-of-swamp-water Polo shirt looked awful in the synthetic light and before he could respond George was already flicking the switch off. They were submerged in darkness now, only illuminated by the streetlights outside and the leftover light from the living room, but to George it was worth it for the way Dream’s eyes almost glowed in the dark. 

They stood together in silence. George didn't speak before Dream continued. 

“I miss how it was before, that place I can never get back. I miss just being a dumb sixteen-year-old who walked barefoot on the boardwalk and got sunburn on my shoulders, and I miss hanging out with Sapnap, and honestly, I miss living in ignorance. It was so much easier when I knew nothing, when I thought I was as old as any other adult. I look at the other kids in that town, at Tommy and Tubbo, at anyone, and I just… I don't know what to think.”

“It’s delicate.”

“It is. I wonder what’ll happen. I hope, for their sake, it gets better.”

“Well,” George said, looking at the window and the streetlight outside it, “The kid’s been found. In Dulac, too. Might take the spotlight off for a bit.”

“And thank god for that,” Dream sighed, “Maybe I’ll sleep better now. No more fear about everything going on. Sapnap really saved my skin by keeping quiet, but it’s not like any of us would gain anything from speaking up.”

“I meant it, like, the box wasn't in Fenborne. Everyone thought White brought her back home before killing her properly. Maybe the infamy will wear off, a bit.”

“And he was from New Orleans.”

“That’s true. He just happened to appear in town and mess things up.”

They stood together in silence, and Dream went to pick up his cup of coffee from the table again. Wordlessly, George moved into the hallway, and then into the bedroom at the end of the hall. There was a moment where George undressed, and he could hear Dream shut the lid of the laptop before he moved to follow George into the bedroom.

“You’re in there already?” Dream asked when he came in, but George just pulled the covers over his head instead of responding. Dream chuckled, putting his coffee on the bedside table and pulling off the jeans, shirt, before getting into bed too. 

They were quiet for about a second before George spoke up again. 

“Is this better?”

“What?”

“Just… this. Being away from it all. You mentioned missing Fenborne, and everyone, well, basically everyone you’ve ever known, and I feel sort of bad after asking you if you wanted you to come with me.”

“But I said yes?”

“You did.”

Dream huffed out a laugh, turning over in the bed so that he could put a hand on George’s stomach. 

“I think it’ll get better over there,” Dream said as he closed his eyes, “I got a letter from Tubbo, an actual hand-written one.”

“You didn't say.”

“I am now. It came earlier. Anyway, he was talking about how he and Tommy were thinking about getting some of the land off the side of the cemetery, about how they were expanding their shop. He also said that the ‘Old Star’ has got better business now. I think people want to see what it’s all about down there.”

“Huh,” George said, putting his hand over Dream’s, “It’s only about an hour and a half from there to New Orleans, right?”

“Maybe a bit more, but not much.”

“I guess people are getting over their fear of the unknown then. I don't think my work will have anything to do with it.”

“Don't sell yourself short. Maybe a few people took a trip, who knows?”

George watched Dream’s face, the serenity and stillness of it as he closed his eyes, and he thought about how Dream left it all behind. Everything he owned, aside from some of what little furniture he had, fitted easily into George’s car when they’d left early on that Monday morning. While George hadn't been sad to go, his heart still twinged when he watched Dream and Ranboo hug their goodbyes. They’d known each other for years, and the tears on Ranboo’s unmasked face proved it, but Dream still managed to smile at George through the tears. Maybe Ranboo would be looking to get out of there, too. Maybe the fishery that hired Dream was looking for boat repairs or something. 

“What are you thinking about?” Dream asked with a smile when he opened his eyes again “the next deadline, the terrible coffee, the loud neighbours?”

“You,” George said, but before Dream’s smile could get too wide, he amended it. “And Ranboo.”

“Huh?”

“Ranboo. I mean… we have a spare bedroom?”

“You think he’ll want to move out here?”

“Or, or he could visit?”

“You want to adopt him,” Dream said, and George saw his cheek move as he smiled. 

He blew out a breath, “What? No, it’s just… He was nice.”

Through the gloom Dream’s face turned slightly to the side, “Uh-huh.”

“Shut up, he was! It’s just… Fenborne…”

“I think I get you,” Dream interrupted him, “It feels pretty dead, huh?”

“Yeah. I didn't want to say it, but yeah.”

“I get you. Maybe we’ll invite him, I’ll mention a vacancy at the engineering shop near my work, and, well, it’ll be good to see him again.”

“See, that’s what I meant to say.”

“Why, do you miss him?”

“No,” George stated, looking at him, “I was worried you would.”

Dream took a sip of his coffee from earlier and put it back onto the bedside table, and he turned back to George.

“Yeah, I do. Maybe we should invite him up, see if everything back there is good.”

“Maybe.”

Dream looked at him, a slight smile on his face.

“Maybe.”

George’s eyes smiled behind the sheet. His mouth was invisible.

“Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is done! it is done, it is done, it is done!   
> Thank you so much for reading. This has been a real challenge for me to get out at all, and considering the problems ive been having with stuff in the story im surprised its finished tbh, especially with my history of not finishing things. 
> 
> if you have enjoyed this, please let me know! Comments, kudos, bookmarks and everything really help me out with knowing that people like my work, and its a major influence for me to keep making more. 
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tricky one folks.  
> This fic is a WIP, currently on chapter 4, and im expecting it to be quite a long one! I managed to get Marble Cake out even with my track record of not finishing fics when I post them before theyre complete, so please be patient. I cant give you an exact date that chapters will be out, but I do have a beginning, middle and end in mind, so keep an eye out ;) 
> 
> As always, please respect creators boundaries by not sending them this fic, and I will do the same in the event that they no longer want fanfiction or fan works. if it is ever declared incorrect to write shipping fics by the creators themselves this work will be deleted. Under no circumstance am I trying to insult or hurt anyone here. 
> 
> Thank you! Let me know what you think!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: @turtle-ier  
> Find me on Twitter: @Turtle_ier


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